


The King's Ballad

by TheSarcasticRed



Series: The Ballads [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: ALL THE POLITICS, Action/Adventure, Arguing, Character Development, Childhood Trauma, Control Issues, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Happy Ending, Healing, Humor, It'll get worse before it gets better, Leadership, Minor Original Character(s), Older Characters, Original Female Nord Character(s) - Freeform, POV Male Character, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Traditions, realistic characters, recovering from trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25844563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSarcasticRed/pseuds/TheSarcasticRed
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak doesn't give a damn about dying. He'll die the day Talos wills it, and he'll be a happier man for it.Nonetheless, he'd like to win the war first. He'd like to do a lot of things before dying, to tell the truth. It's the only reason he agrees to let a mage, of all folk, treat him.But really, couldn't she make hating her a little easier?
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Ulfric Stormcloak, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak, Galmar Stone-Fist & Ulfric Stormcloak, Ulfric Stormcloak/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Ballads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875337
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38





	1. The Night

**Author's Note:**

> This book revolves around Ulfric's point of view (mainly) and his development as a person. His reasons for doing things will not always be clear. Life is made up of little moments, and as you will see, these little moments will make all the difference, be it to him or others around him.  
> This will be a slow-going book, as I want to write it correctly and to the best of my ability. Updates will likely be every two or three months, but we will see.  
> Enjoy!

He is seventeen again.

The offensive scent of vomit saturates the air, his mouth feeling thick and dense with the leftover odor of bile. His shoulders fume with pain that contends with the lashes upon his back, causing him an inability to sleep. His wrists are sore and stiff, knees heavily bruised from being forced to kneel. He's barely conscious and in too much pain to even think. It's like he is in a sinking ship, awake but unable to bail the water out to save himself. A sharp, high-pitched voice muddles by his ears. He cannot hear it, not that he'd want to.

Abruptly, his head is roughly smacked aside, making his fractured and bruised cheek throb with a new fury. He remains mostly unresponsive, swallowed by intense pain.  _ Arkay, I'm ready _ , is all he can stand to think _.  _ She scoffs, moments later, the rough feeling of a poorly done and intrusive healing spell weaving through his muscles gripping him. His entire body tenses as the pain rises from the mishandling of nerves and weak tissue, but she gets what she wants ( _ when does she not? _ ). He slowly becomes more alert, able to open blue-green eyes to stare blankly, still partly covered by his eyelids.

"Good morning, prisoner four," the Altmer smiles, leaned down. To anyone, her expression could seem polite, if a little mechanical, like gears churning in a Dwemer ruin. To him, it's that of a snake, already having begun suffocating its prey. "I heard you didn't get such a good rest last night," she chuckles.

He doesn't meet her eyes anymore, his gaze firmly set on a wall. Not on the ground-  _ never on the ground _ \- but away from her. He counts his quickened breaths as she sighs dejectedly. "Oh, come now, boy. Manners!" she barks out, backhanding him on the unbroken, gaunt cheek, shaking her head. "You will address me, prisoner. I thought we had this disciplined into you by now, but I suppose not! You've been so good lately, too! I'd hate to have to restart our training, don't you agree?" she continues, her head tilting in that identical way it always did. Her eyes shine with barely-contained fury, and he knows this without looking.

He will not comply. He will not.  _ Arkay, I'm ready, _ he repeats desperately as he hears her call for the guard to grab the whip. But, he knows, Arkay will not come. No god of his could save him, not in her hands. He is better to just surrender, to sustain the least amount of pain and nod along.  _ Father, you were right,  _ he thinks. __ If only he had hugged him one more time, his own back smooth and untarnished.  _ I was not ready.  _ He should have stayed with Arngeir, who had gotten so angry, had been so disappointed, Ulfric had seen the man's eyes water as he left. The greybeard who had helped raised him with joy and care now silently shunned him from the very walls of High Hrothgar. He could have left more respectfully, at the least, and he had known it.

_ Arkay, I am ready,  _ he repeats as a trance begins to slip in. The footsteps of the guard and the unbinding of his chains with a key ring in the air. The feeling of stumbling to his feet, trying to fight with the few, precious moments he has of being unbound. The following intense, paralyzing lighting that runs through his body, making his muscles convulse and sheer panic grow in him as he slams to the floor. The laughter she emits, that blood-curdling, snickering tone. She comments on his sudden fight, adding that he shouldn't be able to do this with his current food rations. Terrible, mocking praise of his determination despite already picked odds.

He will lose against her today, this he knows for certain. He will be dragged to the post, whipped and flogged, left strung there for hours, maybe a few days. What he also knows, perhaps it is only a desperate hope, is that one of these fights, the odds will change.

Until then, as he is dragged and clicked into the steel, head hung low, he will know,  _ Arkay, I am ready.  _

The slicing of the air, the sickening crack of the whip, and the slamming of the air out of his chest as it bends forward are all familiar. What is new, despite the dozens of times, is the scream-inducing ripping of his skin. He can never forget it, that pain, but it will always be the worse in the moment of impact, no matter if he expects it or not. He bites his lip and inner cheek as it hits, but it does nothing to stop the scream.

The Jarl of Eastmarch lurches up from his bed, sweat coating him as he attempts to regulate his unhinged breathing. He is disoriented and exhausted from the dream, barely able to get it into himself that it was only just that- a dream. He is home, in his bed, in his quarters, and she cannot harm him. She cannot physically harm him here. 

It has been thirty years since his imprisonment, but the only thing that has changed is that the sleeping droughts no longer work. They are not strong enough, and the ones that are, he may never wake from with consistent use.

His chest begins to heave and he stumbles out from his bed to rush to his bathroom, his throat and abdomen contracting as he holds back the contents of his stomach. Last night's dinner and stomach acid lands in a bucket, evidence of just how much he is affected by his nightmares. Soon after, he's heaving up the rest of the bile and mead from his stomach for about thirty more seconds. He attempts to spit out the terrible coating in his mouth but ends up mostly unsuccessful. He forces himself to stand fully and washes out his mouth after uncovering a basin of water, spitting the water in the bucket and holding back a gagging noise at the smell.  _ You would think it wouldn't be a problem after thirty years, but here the fuck I am,  _ he shakes his head, refusing to think more of the situation lest he festers a mood he cannot break.

He gets out of the bathroom only to realize he needs to piss but decides to instead relieve himself in the shared bathrooms rather than his own being it now reeks of vomit. He wipes his perspiring hands on his linen trousers, trying to ignore the way they shake just like his unstable breaths. Ulfric glances to a window only to see the night sky glittered with stars and takes a long inhale, followed by a long exhale, trying to calm himself.

He has gotten barely an hour of sleep and he'll not be able to fall back asleep now. He knows this from the many times he has tried to and ended up tossing and turning until the morning came. He doesn't have that time to waste anymore. He is depended upon by hundreds of soldiers and citizens. He is but one man in a situation that demands everything he has to offer. 

He puts on a tunic and boots and exits his room, heading to his study after relieving himself. If he can't sleep and doesn't feel well enough to stomach a few bottles of mead, at least he can drown himself in paperwork. 

"Do want me to wake General Galmar, my lord?" a guard questions before he enters. The jarl lingers at the open door, lips turned slightly downward. Ulfric doesn't need the company. He doesn't want the questions or lecturing his old friend can often slip into during a situation like this. Plus, the man deserves his rest for the day soon to come. Ulfric will no doubt be short of patience, more so than he usually is, and there are meetings with hold generals to be had.

"Let him sleep," he decides, low voice resounding in the hall. He closes the door behind him, entering the study. On his desk are piles of reports, requisitions, production updates, letters from jarls, and a good amount more. The walls of the room are covered with tapestry and a few paintings, but mostly bookshelves. Things from his father and grandfather, books of law, and records. 

He lights the candle by his desk and sits, beginning to work on the reports of hold generals. These weren't very intensive, all he did was read over them, make any comments if needed, and then hand them down to Galmar for responses. Unfortunately, there seemed to be trouble brewing around Winterhold. General Kai Wet-Pommel, who had been stationed their purely because he was young and inexperienced, had informed of several Imperial camps being set up and warned of possible interception of couriers and supplies.

It would not have been hard for Tullius to figure out the weak link of Ulfric's generals, and Kai was it. He was barely twenty-five and had been appointed due to his ability to keep comrades focused and on their toes. He had limited tactical experience, however, so swamping him with enemy troops and cutting off aid would be an easy victory. From the sound of it, Galmar had stationed a sharp scout stationed in Winterhold in case of something like this, because the runner had found the camps before they had even set up and even counted numbers. This gave Ulfric and Galmar time to figure out a good retaliation, rather than having to light a fire under their asses to get troops to Winterhold to make sure Kai didn't do something stupid without really knowing the situation there were running screaming into.

Ulfric made a few comments on it and wrote the symbol to touch on this as soon as they could, adding a talking point onto another parchment dedicated to daily plans that included finding out the name of that scout.

The next report was from the Rift, by Gonnar Oath-Giver. He was a legion veteran and a fair planner. He kept those under him in good spirits, if not a little too boisterous. He wrote of slight concerns of Maven Black-Briar (a vile, power-hungry woman that had a finger in every crime operation in Skyrim you could think of) whilst adding about Jarl Laila Law-Giver's sons. One was openly denouncing him, apparently, and his mother had expressed little devotion to the cause. Maven was fueling the fire, as she always did, and the Snow-Shod family wanted Ulfric to come down to Riften for dinner. 

The jarl stared at the paper, looking at a dozen more things the family wanted and other various things Gonnar had added. Concerningly, there were a few extremely alarming reports about Honorhall orphanage, as well. He made another talking point for the day's plan about Riften and added in smaller writing a question: _ 'Do I need to go to Riften?' _

He'd have to get Jorleif involved for that. And, he'd need to get just about thirty men rounded out from  _ somewhere.  _ A jarl can't just leave his hold- though if Ulfric was honest, a little part of him wanted to make a cowardly run for the hills. However, he hated Riften, so it would be a bad get-away place. Still, he supposed it was a city that he was in charge of. He could not ignore the city, nor, regrettably, the Snow-Shod family. 

After putting that report aside as well, he looked over the letter from the general of The Pale, Frorkmar Battle-Torn. Nothing seemed to be new, as per usual from Dawnstar, meaning new orders for him would be easy come mid-day.  _ Thank Talos, one unproblematic report.  _

After the reports came the requisitions, a long, tedious task of documenting supplies that took a few hours. Riften troops used up surplus weapons. Winterhold troops used up food reserves and needed more. The Riften blacksmith got an order done. Farms turned in their extra food. The Kynsegrove mine shipped in some more metal. Things like that.

He wrote up another order for the Riften blacksmith according to needed supplies for camps after finishing recording everything and set it aside to make sure he'd get it to a courier. Next, he began to look at things the jarls had written to him about. Jarl Korir of Winterhold expressed concern over General Kai and the College of Winterold, commenting that he thought Ulfric would have banished the college by now.  _ What? Did I read that right?  _

He pauses, eyes narrowing as he lifts the paper from the desk.  _ Gods forbid, he wrote that. That college is the only thing that keeps his city going. Is he mad? _

Now, Ulfric would be the first person to say he didn't like magic (in fact, he would likely yell at someone who thought he supported it), but he didn't even have the authority to tell the Arch-Mage or whoever ran the college to abolish it. And he wouldn't, even if he could! Mages are important to Skyrim, just as much as any person. Especially the healers and the college is where they learn their restoration skills.  _ I need more of those these days; perhaps I am over embellishing my liking of them and everything surrounding magic in total, but I do what I have to do to lessen the strain of my coffers.  _ Either way, as much as he didn't like their craft, it didn't mean he couldn't acknowledge the work they did.

Notably, in a bad mood, he would entirely disregard everything he had just reasonably pointed out about users of magic. He's seen enough destruction from the craft that he's overly aware of the pain it can cause, less used to the good it can contribute. And, to be frank, he didn't care enough to go out and see the help it can do. He's too busy for that bard-like self-reflection shit. He'll brood in peace with his own opinions, and if anyone wants to challenge that, they can shove a stick up their, as Galmar often states, 'you-know-where' for all he cares.

Still, the jarl of Winterhold was desperate for some semblance of power and it made him act foolishly. Ulfric knew this, and as much as he wanted to point the man out on it in his responding letter for the stupidity, he strayed his hands from the words and kept his temper in his chest. His response was noticeably quipped and uninterested, but he didn't care to redo it. He sealed it in wax, set it off into the pile of delivery papers, and continued.

Next, Skald the Elder, the jarl of The Pale, known to be much less biting in-person to Ulfric than in his writings. He seemed to be in a rather foul mood when he had written because he only complained about meager things and asked about getting paid for his service.  _ For what service? You've not lifted a blade since you were thirty and you snarl at the every-day man who joins my cause. No.  _ Along with that, he rambled on about what Ulfric should do, questioned why another hold had not yet been taken, and how he should go about taking Whiterun because Ulfric certainly was in a position to.  _ I can barely pay my maids, you son of a troll. Look at my damn city.  _ Ulfric snapped his quill entirely when he was trying to write a reply, which just made him more irritated. The irritation was only the start and fury would soon begin to stir. At that point, it would be unprecedented if he only snapped at Galmar during the day.

_ I wonder why he stays, sometimes. He likely has not taken a wife because of me, though he must have some woman somewhere around that he fancies.  _ The jarl pauses for a few moments, eyes tracing the letters on the paper before him.  _ Just one more thing to feel shameful about, is it not? How many more things will haunt me in my life? Have I not had enough? _

He scoffed at himself, shook his head, and regained his focus. Those were the thoughts of a spoiled, idiotic boy, and his father taught him better. Ulfric continued working. Work drowned out the thoughts, at least.

Ulfric didn't want to break any of his good quills and he was still waiting on a delivery for more, so he just fiddled with the half of the quill left. His fingers fumbled with it and his writing suffered the first few sentences, but he soon got ahold of it by the time he got to Jarl Laila's letter. 

It seemed he did need to schedule a trip to Riften because the skooma problem was still not handled. If even Laila was noticing it, then it likely had already escalated to the point where it would be impossibly difficult to fix. He didn't have time for this! Not only did he not have the time to go to Riften, but he didn't have the resources to fix the problems occurring. This was Laila's responsibility!

Still, he made a note of the continued and worsening skooma trafficking in the daily plan. Jorleif would be good and furious, no doubt, because the woman certainly hadn't been listening to him the last time he told her, in person, exactly what to do about this dilemma.  _ Imagine the things that could be done when I'm not having to dip into even city funds to keep my men afloat. Imagine, having a treasury filled with septims.  _

"As if that'll happen at the rate I'm going," he mutters and he moves onto production updates from various mills, farms, and mines. Thinking about his current lack of coin will do him no good. A shipment of Dawnstar metals would be passing through Winterhold in a little less than a week. He added that with the Winterhold talking point because he sure as Talos did not want to let that metal get into Imperial hands. Agna's Mill was on time, as ever. 

Mid-way shuffling through more papers, Ulfric discovers a letter Galmar must've set on his desk that got lost in the fray. ' _ What about volunteers- no pay, no oath?  _ ' it reads in the housecarl's signature scribble. The jarl recoils, brows furrowing. He flips the letter around, scanning for anything more on the slip of parchment being Galmar's knack to add random notes wherever on the page. 

_ Ah.  _ ' _ Healers and cooks for the camps, for example. _ ' 

"What?" he murmurs to himself, then snorts. He'll give Galmar Oblivion for it later, assuming he's not serious. It would be criminally easy for a spy to sneak in. The housecarl had probably just been drunk. 

He returns to normal paperwork, beginning to check the needs of farmsteads and the night continues with similar tedious tasks. It's not until someone's knocking on the study door that Ulfric breaks out of his state of focus and realizes it's early morning, the sun beginning to rise. That's how paperwork goes- the first few hours pass by and you remember them, but the rest are just gone afterward. It's mind-numbing.  _ And that is why I lack the ability to entirely hate it like most jarls. _

A different guard than the night shift one opens the door and announces, "Galmar Stone-Fist, m' lord," before the man himself steps in and the woman closes the door. She must've been from the Rift, with an accent like that.  _ Had I perhaps been a more social man, I'd know the name of all my personal guard, but I've not got time for that shit. _ Ulfric motions to an empty chair across from his desk, despite the housecarl already going to sit there. 

The veteran sits lazily, eyes like that of a saber's as he observes the jarl's state, posture unlike what he'd do in the war room or during a meal. He's in full uniform, and Ulfric realizes he has not even changed yet. Only two letters, a ledger, the day's plans, and the large pile of papers needing to be sent rest on his desk. Most indicative of everything that he's had a wicked night, though, is the absence of a drink of any kind. Usually, he at least gets water.

And he's still writing with a broken quill. Along with that, his inkpot is nearly fully empty. All in all, Galmar knows exactly what he's walking into on this morn. If he picks a fight, he knew it was coming.

"Good morning," the jarl states cooly, not glancing up. 

Galmar's eyebrows raise. "Aye, it's morning," and he pauses. He takes  _ that  _ kind of inhale, leans forward with eyes narrowed, and says, "you fucking draugr."

The sound of the quill snapping, again, marks the clear indication of Ulfric's state. The man looks up slowly, maintaining eye contact as he opens a drawer and throws the unusable quill in it. The other Nord shakes his head. "This has to stop, Ulfric," he mutters, growling out a sigh.

"Oh, I'd like it to," the jarl snaps back, even though he knows it's uncalled for; he's drained and has a volatile mood, Galmar knew this not even five seconds after walking in. Nothing's going to help it anymore- he's tried everything he and Galmar thought of.  _ If I were a stronger man, perhaps I would be able to contain it. But alas, I am not. _ "Do you think I have a choice?"

"You could at least-" the other man lets out a throaty growl, standing from his chair mid-eye-roll and walks right out, saying gravelly, "I'll be in the war room. I can't talk to you when you're like this," and the door slams shut.

The jarl scowls, grabbing the plans for the day and folding them before slipping them in his pocket. He covers the inkpot, despite what little ink remains, and heads to his chambers to change into formal attire. He does this with efficiency, being it's settled into a routine repeated day after day for more years than he cares to count.

He knows he needs to reign in his temper, and he's known it for years, but he doesn't know how he could even go about it. Forcing himself to ignore it doesn't work, so all he could reasonably do is just avoid everyone he humanly can, but he cannot. It is left to his council and friends to take the brunt of the heat of his anger, and it does not sit well with him, but he can't control it on days like these. No amount of potions will make it subside and the healers have long given up on trying to domesticate it.

He takes the pile of papers needing to be sent from his study on his way out of the upper wing of the Palace of Kings. When he enters the war room, Yrsarald, the Eastmarch hold general, is munching absent-mindedly on an apple, leaned up against the tables that line the far wall of the room. "My jarl," he greets, dipping his head before taking another bite of the apple. Galmar glances up from the war table.

Ulfric deposits the letters to the left on Yrsarald on the table then grabs a slice of bread on the small table located by the entrance of the room from the main hall. He finishes it, pulls the daily plan out of his pocket, and puts it on the war table, still folded. "As it seems," he begins, drawing the attention of the two men, "General Kai is going to be cut off from resources in a matter of days from now. There's a brigade of about a hundred that's marched onto Winterhold border. He's low on food and resources, as well."

Yrsarald makes a noise. "Not the greenie," he groans. "Where can we pull from, Galmar?"

"We can take Hran's thirty men out from the Rift," Galmar offers, arms crossing. "Then, we take the Eastmarch camp's numbers out there and we'd have about seventy men. We'd have to spread city guard even thinner, but we could make do. There are ten men that could be pulled on from Dawnstar, too."

"We'd still be outnumbered. The Imperials have at least one hundred and twenty men out there," Ulfric states, frowning.  _ We don't have any more available forces.  _ "It will no doubt be a difficult battle. I would entrust both of you to that task if you both are willing. Fort Kastav is in a mountain pass; a chokepoint could be made."

The court mage abruptly yells from the throne room, croaky voice distinguishable, "I can ask the College of Winterhold for atronach scrolls. There are two apprentice mages in Hran's forces that could make good use of them, along with other scrolls."

Yrsarald snorts, the least bothered by the court mage of the three men in the room. "Wuunferth, I didn't know you woke this early, you old coot! Get in here if you're going to be screaming at us."

The old mage approaches the doorway shortly after but doesn't come in. Ulfric's eyes narrow, and though he's inwardly thankful the mage didn't come in, he won't comment on it. "Do those not discharge fire heavily upon death?" the jarl points out.

"Only flame atronachs," the man answers, "and the Arch-Mage has been working with new mass armor scrolls. I can see if he's fully approved of any of them. He owes me some scrolls, anyway."

"I suppose. Do what you can, so long as it doesn't get my men killed," Ulfric states, sharp. The mage dips his head and walks away from the archway, undisturbed by the gruff nature of the Nord's words. He is old enough and has dealt with Ulfric long enough to know when the rebel leader means to be coarse and when he does not.

"I'll write to the troops after food, then," Yrsarald comments after a slight silence, then questions, "when are we being sent out, you think?"

"Likely in only a few days," the taller man answers simply, glancing at his housecarl. "Galmar, do you remember the scout you posted at Winterhold?" he asks.

The general shifts, huffs, and then says, "Ralof, was his name. Unblooded, but he had a good eye and the sense of when to back off. Why?"

"Once you get to Winterhold, track him down and give him an advance. He did damn good for an Unblooded."

"Fair enough," Galmar replies, watching as the steward walks in, not straying from the doorframe. Ulfric's eyes shift (as they tend to do) from the normal blue to a green hue in the changing of light as he moves, going to lean against a wall beside one of the few windows in the room.

Jorleif crosses his arms, attention flickering to the pile of delivery papers on one of the tables as he says, "Morning's greetings, all. Jarl Ulfric, have you need of anything before I check on the servants?"

"Send word to the council members that next month's council will be delayed, we'll settle exact dates likely after we've got the Imperials at Winterhold settled out," Ulfric orders and the man nods. Ulfric adds, "Is there anything planned for the twenty-seventh of Last Seed to the third of Hearthfire?"

"Other than the city council on the first, no. What of it?" the man replies, brows furrowing.

The jarl's stare is  _ deathly,  _ but it's not to Jorleif personally, it's to the words Ulfric soon says _.  _ "I believe I'll have to make a trip to Riften, considering a multitude of substantial issues that continue occurring under Jarl Laila's nose. You would think the woman would understand she has a skooma problem in her city after  _ three _ different attention calls to it, but apparently not."

The steward raises his brows, but the civil exterior is broken by the tightness of his smile. "And my good day is soiled. I'll make the proper arrangements. Have you written to her, or shall I?"

"You may. I've broken enough quills this week, I would think," the jarl mutters, growling out a sigh. He's not fully yelled at anyone yet, though. As pathetic as it sounds, this morning is going better than most do when he is in this kind of mood. His control is improving and the good days are beginning to outweigh the bad, but the days when he's in poor temperament seem to affect him more than they once did. Now, he can compare them to the less tumultuous days and realize just how bad he once was and still is.

He harbors very little pride for himself in temperament and corresponding self-control. Perhaps, was he a more tolerant man, he would be able to act like he did when he was younger. Maybe the days with the Thalmor would have slipped right off his shoulders and he could burn the memories out and be as he once was. 

He doesn't even remember what he was like before it all. Galmar does, but he makes a deliberate point to avoid any mention of past events. A good thing on days like these, but Ulfric is damn tired of this same cycle, over and over again. He doesn't want to have another relapse, he doesn't want to wake in the middle of the night and vomit. He feels clouded all the time, a type of fog that makes anything other than basic muscle memory much harder than he knows it should be. 

He's tired. That's all it is. He's got a lot of things that he needs to do and he's stressed.  _ Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, you damn rockhead. That'll end out well. _

"What are your plans for Riften other than the trafficking?" Yrsarald questions, merely curious. Ulfric scratches his beard idly, noting he should probably trim it. Galmar nods in agreement, no doubt unsettled at the idea of the jarl going into possibly dangerous situations.

"Jarl Laila and one of her sons are getting out of line, so I'll remedy that myself if need be. The Snow-Shod have wishes for a visit- they want some sort of approval for something that one of the sons, Asgeir is doing. Unmid, the other son, will likely be as overly-eager as he usually is, and it will be Lilija's memorial date. Gonnar reported... disturbing things about the orphanage, as well, among other notable things."

Galmar stares. "You put disturbing and orphanage in the same sentence and don't elaborate."

"The headmistress is selling the children out to buyers for- well, exactly what you'd think."

Yrsarald abruptly shouts, barking, "That's fucked! That's so fucked!"

"You find the client list and you post it on the notice board, so help me, Talos, those sick bastards will get what's coming to them," the housecarl snarls. "I'll find them myself."

Ulfric's stoic expression is unbroken. "I fully agree and would talk more of it," he glances to the door, "but, I believe breakfast is being served," he stated idly. "Anything else before it?"

"I think not," Galmar rumbles, and the Eastmarch general nods in agreement, the three of them soon moving out of the war room and taking their respective places at the dining table. The meal passes quickly, half of an hour being spent listening to the chatter of sluggish guards. 

Ulfric doesn't eat much, though the utter gall Galmar has shows when he forces him to eat more. Sometimes, the man is more like a mother hen, even if it's in the best intentions. The jarl couldn't bring himself to fight his friend's stubbornness without seeming crude, so he kept his mouth shut and only glared harmlessly when the grizzly fuck pushed the platter of meat back to him for the second time in a row. No words were shared.

Unfocused to his council's talking, he heard a conversation between two older guards, Ragmir and Tholund. Both were the replacement for Galmar when Ulfric sent the housecarl out, though the two often got into fights. The men had known each other for nearly fifty years but still went at each other like wolves. Tholund was commenting on the current batch of recruits and Ragmir was agreeing, contributing colorful insults at the unblooded soldiers to which the other man bit out a snark remark, entirely earnest in his spite. Ragmir was... not very humble, and Tholund couldn't stand braggarts.

The two began their normal baiting match, trying to one-up the other. An older female guard barked some choice words at them before they could escalate more, sharp with her annoyance clear. They quieted right down, though there were rolled eyes and scoffs. Ulfric found the interaction to be mildly humorous, having heard that most of the women in his ranks usually kept the men in line but not often seeing it.

It was reassuring to know that the army at his front kept each other in line, for it meant that there was a general camaraderie and good sense. Most of the recruits nowadays were boys barely turned sixteen, overly eager, and suicidal. Determined, but a few torches upstairs weren't quite lit.

All too like the Great War. It unsettled him, but he forced himself away from the thought. He cared about his men, unlike the legates that had been commanding back then. If there was one thing he could give the current Empire and General Tullius a nod to, it was the fact that he cared about those under him. At the end of the day, the man was just doing what he was told to do- he didn't need to give a damn about his forces, his commanding officers could do that. But he did. He was a true legionnaire, through and through. Ulfric could at least give him that.  _ I'd be damned to oblivion before I said it aloud, however. _

The man glanced at his council, finding that most of them had finished with their meals and were mostly talking of the day's agenda. He stood, saying simply, "Back to work, men," which resulted in the meal effectively being ended. Galmar and Yrsarald headed to the war room, trailing behind him, and the Eastmarch general headed to the upper wing to write out the orders for the men being relocated to Winterhold.

"Winterhold, extra matters, or meetings first?" the housecarl questioned as he shuffled through what Ulfric assumed was the current recruit list from the long line of names. The jarl scowled. 

"Extra matters?" he inquiries sharply, not liking the idea of more shit to wade through on this particular day. The older man merely blinks, meeting Ulfric's stare with one just as cutting. They've known each other for too long to not bicker like bulls both with words and without.

He rolls his eyes and states, "I need to get someone to fill in for however long we'll be on mission in the training ring for the newbloods. There's about twenty coming in, shouldn't be too bad. There's also the matter of the letter I gave you," Ulfric scoffs, and Galmar continues, accent thickening as his annoyance grows, "and then figuring out who will take care of our work while I and Thrice-Pierced are out."

"One of the lieutenants could handle those numbers," the other man answers, "I'll send word to Captain Avgorne and I can divvy up the papers between myself and Jorleif."

"And the volunteers?" Galmar prods. "We can have security measures in place so that-"

"Galmar, do you know how ridiculous that sounds? If someone wanted to join our ranks, they can damn well swear the oath. I thought we agreed on this," Ulfric growls.

The housecarl tilts his head to the side and barks back, "We need healers, my lord. If there's one damn thing I know about mages, it's that they hate to have their hands forced. They do things of their own will, not what you or I would tell them. You know well enough that the men would be able to keep any ill-wishing sign-up from getting any substantial information, too."

Ulfric shakes his head, crosses his arms, and mutters, "You'd bet everything on this... idea?"

"Not everything," the general admits, "but a few meads that it'll turn out for the best? You'd best believe it."

The jarl goes silent, eyes flickering around as he thinks on it, and finally says, "If there is but one breach from this allowance, it's over. You deal with all the security checks for these possible... enlistees, and I'd best not be hearing anything else of it. Understood?" he orders piercingly

.

Galmar, pleased to have won because of Ulfric's poor mood and happy with the rather uncaring wave off, grins like a madman. "Yes, my lord."

_ Damn old coot. _

"Winterhold, then. Fort Kastav is located as a mountain pass, as I stated before, so it makes for a fair choke point. It's on an incline, so it would be wise to position archers on the top walls facing the western road. The eastern is mostly back trails- half of Tullius' men would be dead from bears by the time he got to the fort, but he might send a small unit for a stealth attack," Ulfric explains, knowing Galmar likely hasn't been around the area the fort is settled in. He can just barely remember it from a hunting trip with his father.

Hoag had always snuck out of Eastmarch every few months or so- he was certainly a wanderer, despite seeming completely opposite. Ulfric, as a mere lad, would be utterly overjoyed to accompany his father. Fort Kastav had been a much longer hike, a miserable one, too, but he remembers it being worth it. The view from the fort, then occupied by guards, had been breathtaking for a boy of ten. He killed his first bear around there, too.

The housecarl nods, "From what I've heard, it's a remote fort."

"Aye. Lots of civilian traffic during the summer months, but other than that, it's just a valley. You'll be able to see someone coming from a league out."

"Good, good. Sounds like nature is siding with us this round," he snorts. "Performance reviews, then?"

Ulfric groans. "If we must. Start with Gonnar, then."

"He's letting his men get too out of hand. They're getting either lazy or too riled up. He needs to cooperate with the city guard more, and I'd say that telling him to start finding the corrupt members in Riften's ranks would be a wise move being what you've stated about the city. I can make some harder training rounds and send them to him for his men if needed as well."

"I agree. I'll likely also add in for him to make sure the men don't trip over Black-Briar's underground spies- we don't have the time to be playing that woman's games, nor the right person for it even if we did. We'll just be gathering information on her at most," Ulfric adds.

Galmar's brows raise. "You have a plan to get her talons out of that city?"

The jarl merely glances, "The notions of one. Now, to Frorkmar."

"If he could attempt to cool Jarl Skald's head before the man writes half-coherent letters it would be favorable."

"He sends them to you as well?"

"Of course he does! His support is needed, but he's gone off into the ghost sea with half his thoughts! He expects every man, woman, and child to fight, but yet sneers at the common folk who do? I dislike those who are neutral myself, but there is a difference between being undecided in this war and being at risk but choosing a side. There is no possible thing one could say to convince me to allow a mother of five to join, nor a child under fifteen. They're citizens, not soldiers. I almost pity his servants, too. Gods, the man's lost it," the housecarl rants, obviously having waited for the chance to express these opinions.

Ulfric agrees, then comments, "I think Frorkmar's only tasks would be of that matter and then to keep a closer eye out for movements. If he could find a supply trail or a camp, it would help cut off the Imperials who are centering on Winterhold. Anything else?"

"No. I'd reckon we wait for Kai's report until after this whole mess is over, aye?" the housecarl offers. "We've still yet to even look at new guard rotations and patrols. It wouldn't make much sense to do it now."

The jarl nods, "On to the rotations then. How many men do we have throughout the city and in training?"

And the day goes on, his patience wearing thinner and thinner each time he and Galmar are interrupted with questions and issues and concerns raised by the guard captain, Jorleif, and Yrsarald. At times like these, he's especially thankful he doesn't have any thanes or a full court. Fewer problems, fewer issues that need to be solved, and fewer people needing to be pleased. The benefits of the right person as thane could outweigh the drawbacks, but in war, Ulfric wouldn't allow someone to stab him in the back like thanes and extra court members could. He didn't have the required patience that would be needed currently. 

Funny enough, he wasn't a political man at heart, no matter how good he was in the courts. He didn't even reckon he could call himself a soldier, either. He was losing grip of himself, stuck neck-deep in the titles, and the responsibilities. Worst of all, he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed.

His father would be disappointed. Ulfric had been taught religiously that his work shouldn't ever flow over into his personal life. A single piece of hay is all it takes to light the entire barn on fire, as Hoag had said. 

Still, lunch came and went. Galmar established new guard routes with the guard captain. Ulfric took care of the patrols, planning to go on one within the next month to check on the various mines. Jorleif began planning for the Riften trip, also letting three servants go because Ulfric had finally allowed one of the unused wings to be temporarily abandoned because of poor plumbing and a carriage load of other issues. 

The Eastmarch general had been off training recruits and doing performance reviews on them, along with spreading the word about the new volunteer opening via couriers and street gossip. There were two civil cases Ulfric reviewed, one of a woman refusing to let her daughter marry a soldier and another of two farmers arguing over property lines. Both were impressively violent, but Ulfric was able to send everyone home quickly with easy, if not sharp, rulings. The old mother ended up apologizing and making amends and the farmers agreed that to end the dispute they'd let their kids marry and give them land.

Galmar had thought the farmers' accents to be utterly hilarious, mocking them for the rest of the day until Yrsarald mocked  _ him.  _ The two kept each other in check with awful bickering and constant threats of duels. Had they ever actually sparred? Not that Ulfric knew of, but he was rather certain that both thought they'd lose and their squabbling wasn't worth the reputation hit that came with a lost brawl, no matter how respectful both sides were.

Regrettably, Ulfric just about made Yrsarald quit, which wasn't that great. One too many teasing jabs from the general (he was a fucking saber sometimes) and Ulfric lost it. A newer maid, unaccustomed to the heated yelling, remarked with alarm after Yrsarald had stormed out to a guard, "Does that happen often?"

The guard snorted and said, "General Yrsarald's pushed Jarl Ulfric's buttons plenty of times. That was one of the better ones, to be honest. I'd keep the mead coming quick tonight though if you're serving. I haven't seen him snap at anyone other than about four people, but it's best not to gamble with that type of temper, lass."

Ulfric went from murderous to abashed in about three seconds. The fact he was becoming someone to be wary of by his staff did not settle well in his gut and it hung with him not an hour later when he was one wrong word from yelling at Galmar too. 

He did end up in a shouting match with the housecarl, but only for about a minute. He cut himself off before it could continue and walked out of the throne hall. He headed to his study, where he did some paperwork Jorleif dropped off to cool his temper for half of an hour until Galmar begrudgingly tried to apologize.

The jarl only shook his head, muttering, "Do not apologize. You were right," and made his way back to the main hall for dinner, leaving Galmar reeling in confusion behind him. Exhausted was not a fitting word for how tired he felt, but Ulfric needed to get out of his own damn head and suck it up. Sure, he was losing grip on his temper and wasn't having a good day, but that didn't give him a reason to go out and yell at everyone, no matter how strongly the rage brewed in his throat. 

Arngeir's lessons seemed to help, as hard to remember as they were.  _ Drem. Withholding aggression. Patience. Peace.  _ He didn't know if repeating the word of power over and over again would help, but shit, he might even learn to shout the word at this rate. Could one even create their own thu'um? The greybeard had never said.  _ What I would give to sit down and talk with him, free of titles, once more.  _

As he entered the hall, Ulfric remembered Captain Lonely-Gale was invited to dinner on this evening and the man usually had decent stories. It would likely be a long meal, as dinner usually was. The generals let loose and Jorleif talked about his departed wife, who had died of illness not ten years ago. She'd not been able to carry a child through a pregnancy, but that didn't ever seem to hinder Jorleif from loving her more than any god. She was a very witty, soulful person. As dotingly as she cared for the steward, she hated Ulfric for overworking the man.  _ I still can't blame her. _

Yrsarald usually became open about his attempts at flirtation (there was a new one every week) and it always ended in him getting turned down in some mocking or rather amusing way. Galmar talked about the best and worst moments he'd seen involving recruits and people altogether. Guard Captain Avgorne talked about his sons and what new chaos they'd wrecked upon someone or something. A few guards chipped in about their families and friends.

It was one of the events that Ulfric didn't participate much in, as it usually went concerning meals, but still mostly enjoyed. He would rather be doing paperwork or the night's rounds in his room, to tell the truth, but he figured he should at least have the decency to try to seem less uptight. 

"Good evening, my jarl," chimes the former captain right after a sentence said to Jorleif. The steward says a similar greeting, Ulfric responds with acknowledgment, and the small talk is over. 

Traditionally, the head of the house would be the leader of any discussion at the great table, but Ulfric had nothing of interest to talk about. He did mostly the same things day in and day out- work, keep himself alive, and rest as much as he could only to do it all again. Then too, he had always been poor with average conversations, so he found he'd rather be quiet than dominate idle talk. 

It gave those around him a chance to breathe. They didn't have to attempt to constantly strain their words to fit a jarl's attention, they just chatted. He didn't think he could ever be that casual with how he talked, other than if he slept in and was woken up by Galmar. It would be more strained than anything because he'd be cursing his mouth off and hustling to get back to work, though.

He doubted that he would ever sleep in. Perhaps when he grew old he would on a Sundas, being they were usually bearing a low workload. The thought made him internally wince. 

He sat at the head of the table and continued to for the next hour and a half, listening to the slightly inebriated members of his council and guest tell poor stories and laugh merrily at them. A few of them were alright, like Lonely-Gale describing how some new sailor had once gotten knocked headfirst into the mast of a ship and left a welt in the wood that was later named after him. The sailor ended up being in charge of the ship for a few years until he got a wife and settled down. Another being Yrsarald's truly terrible description of a woman whilst he was trying to regard her in a positive light to the group. 

The phrase 'white she-bear' and 'horker of a woman' was rather funny in context. A few female soldiers down the table that were listening in whispered to each other and shook their heads, one even covering her face and looking concerned, like she wanted to desperately tell the general how to properly flirt.

When Ulfric had said, "Perhaps you might need to try a little  _ less _ , Yrsarald," the general had been bright red.

He responded with a huffing, "Says you, jarl of a hold with a voice like thunder. It's not so easy for us average folk, my jarl!" and refused to look at him for the rest of the night for the offense.

Ulfric had merely responded, "And if it ever is, don't trust it."

Galmar had laughed good and hard at that particular discussion, mocking the other general for being redder than a tomato. The housecarl added in a few stories too, but all ones Ulfric had already heard or experienced himself.

And then, dinner was over with and he headed to his quarters for the night. He changed, did lifts on a steel bar, a few sets of sit-ups, and washed up for the night in a cleaned bathroom. He looked at his shelves for something moderately interesting and ended up fruitless.

The Jarl of Eastmarch fell into his bed like he'd been shot dead and stared at the ceiling, thinking, whilst his left shoulder ached. 

_ I am tired of spending the night like this. _


	2. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ulfric had an odd way of dealing with painful things, and Jorleif reckoned his tactic was to not deal with them at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment any errors you notice or sentences that don't flow well. It's a one-woman show 'round here, and this chapter is rather hefty. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The Jarl of Windhelm started this war accepting one thing for certain: he would have to wage every battle he could on his terms. The Imperials were far too strong in numbers to attempt to win with brute force, so he had to be sharp with every move he made. There had to be leaders among his ranks that could effectively formulate and carry out a plan when things went to Oblivion, men and women on the field who would support their shield-brothers and sisters, and everyone doing their damned best for the cause.

When it began, he already knew a few men fitting for the role of general, and he had the forces. However, unlike the Empire, his soldiers were not fighting for blanket statements like, 'A united Empire is strong,' or 'The Empire is our best hope at ridding the Dominion,' based out of fear or ignorance. His troops fought for their culture, based on childhood memories and rooted in as a part of themselves. They fought for freedom, for younger siblings and fathers too old to fight. They fight for each other in a bond that isn't created from battle but kinsmanship. 

Not only is it in the culture that they are fighting for to do this, but it is in their blood. It's a part of Nordic life, and it has been since Atmorans first came to Skyrim. He had one thing that the Imperials did not: thousands of years of learning behind his people.  _ You can call me a bigot all you want, but I and all of Skyrim have rich history behind us. We have raised our children with the knowledge of that history so it is not repeated, rather than pretend someone was only good. Even Ysgramor almost lost his entire family from his arrogance, as daring as he was.  _

And still, Ulfric is considerably stressed over the battle for Winterhold. As tightly knit as his troops may be, it also means the bite of friends' downfalls will hurt all the worse. His units are already outnumbered, even if they have the better field for the battle. 

The battle would be unpredictable, as all were, but dangerously so. Nothing was in his hands this time, and it was the first occasion where he had not been able to control every part of the field. He was exactly what he did not want to be- only a man controlling the strings. Battles like this could lose him respect in the eyes of his men, and he couldn't afford that. Battles like this garner unmarked mass graves and no answers for families but the crushing assumption of demise. 

He should be on the field. He should be fighting, should at least be commanding from a post at the fort. He could have kept Galmar and Yrsarald here, in Windhelm, and handled it himself. Jorleif knew how to run a city (mostly). 

Talos, he is no better than-

_ Snap. _

"My jarl, with all due respect, I hadn't thought Galmar's reports were that frustrating. You do know you're running out of writing tools, right? We might have to get you charcoal from now on. And you've gotten ink all over the table," Jorleif mutters, shaking his head with a groan. "That stains the wood, Ulfric! Your desk is nearly three hundred years old, but at this rate, you'll have destroyed it in forty!"

The jarl sighs and opens a drawer, tossing a black-stained white rag on the table as the steward angrily glares, retrieving a costly cleaning solution from a tucked-away chest in the study. "I can't believe you sometimes."

"Well, perhaps I should-"

"Don't you get bold with me, Ulfric! You're lucky I even accepted to help you. My wife would be beating me with a spoon if she were still around and I was doing this. Working an all-nighter. Gods, I don't even have three meads down and you've already broken a quill, tossed ink everywhere,  _ threw important paperwork at me like it was some tossed-around whore,  _ and refused to communicate about how in Oblivion I'm supposed to format these damned letters!" the steward hisses, roughly taking the cloth from the desk and dousing it in the clear solution.

When Ulfric attempts to assist and move his ink, quill, and papers, the man shoos him away and points to the small table mostly covered in various parchments without another word. The papers only need to be read and then marked, thus making any chance of mistake nearly impossible. 

Then, after the mess is cleaned, Jorleif comments quietly, "You do know how those are formated, correct?"

Ulfric looks up, stares, and then continues reading a letter from an angry farmer whose daughter bedded a passing soldier. The other man makes a disbelieving noise akin to a scoff, puts the cap back on the ink pot, discards the broken quill, and continues trying to decipher how he is to respond to a soldier's complaint.

Ulfric separates the longest and worst of the complaints in a pile, not reading them and leaving them mostly untouched.

A few long moments pass. "How often do you do this?"

"Break a quill, work overnight, or be generally uncooperative?" Ulfric answers, raising a brow. Blue eyes stare unwaveringly, colder than ice. Had Jorleif not known the jarl since he was a boy, he wouldn't know at all that this was in jest. He wouldn't at all know that the man was in a suspiciously good mood for doing paperwork all night. He wouldn't notice how fast he went from being bitterly annoyed to good-naturedly sarcastic.

Jorleif narrows his eyes. "I know your unaccommodating tendencies and quill-breaking, I meant working until dawn. I know you do not sleep restfully, but are you purposefully avoiding it?" he asks, genuinely concerned. 

Ulfric may have forgotten the extent of his steward's ability to worry because the question takes him by surprise when it usually wouldn't.  _ Or perhaps I am just more inclined to think about his questions nowadays.  _ The jarl answers what he wishes to, despite knowing he should probably answer honestly and without sarcasm. __ "No, Jorleif, I am not withdrawing from sleeping, and how dare you even think for a moment that I would be. I'm a busy man, you know. You should watch your tongue...  _ steward _ ."

"My jarl, are you  _ drunk _ ?"

"I've had a few," he shrugs.  _ How distant have I been that he reacts like this?  _

"Of what? The only thing the maids stock in here is hard bitters because you don't drink bitters and they're terribly old. Are you sure your food wasn't-"

He groans, muttering, "Talos, here we go."

"Ulfric, if you drink too much of it you won't be able to speak for a week! You still have citizen councils next week! Gods forbid we cause more unrest in the city, it is bad enough as it is!" the man continues, and Ulfric waits for more, knowing Jorleif always rants for at least five minutes before he can get a word in.

As expected. "You do know that there have been multiple claims of mistreatment from the city guard originating from the Grey Quarter that you will be handling withing the next citizen's court day. If you do not even speak, can you  _ imagine  _ how badly that will end? This is not the time to be getting wasted off of bitters, Stormcloak!"

And, "I am going to resign, one of these days! I will do it this time if you cannot get your act together! You've been getting plenty better, but that doesn't mean all is well! You still refuse to fund the Grey Quarter, for no apparent logical reason! It isn't like we are drowning in debt, or have empty coffers! You can still afford to pay for the city!"

_ This would be where I step in usually and yell right back. Not tonight.  _ Jorleif continues. _ His concerns are valid. _ "You feed the very fire you seek to extinguish! I don't understand you, my jarl! I have known you since we were boys, running in the street, but I cannot read your mind! So, tell me, why have you not assisted them? Why have you done nothing? Are you uncomfortable with a different culture? Do you dislike the way they look? Are you that shallow?"

The silence rings. Jorleif is tense, eyes clenched shut for a few moments, waiting for an aggressive, loud response.  _ I will do better. I am going to shut my mouth and deal with it. His questions may be irritating to hear, but that does not give me the right to react irresponsibly. He does not know. _

Ulfric glances up from a paper and comments quietly, "Are there any more concerns, or do you need to continue? By all means, do so. We'll be here until morning. There is a container of meads in the right bottom drawer of my desk."

He thanks Talos he's been able to keep his wits about him. Most times, he'd go right off the deep end and end up in a shouting match, but he swore he wouldn't today. He forced himself to swallow his pride and rationalize why his temper was flaring rather than let the damn beast rampage until it's worn itself out as he has done for so long. He had to get to the root of the problem, and it was ultimately his actions that triggered his anger.

_ A cycle that was hard to break, admittedly. _

He didn't tell Jorleif he was running on warm, thinned ice with his coin. He only let the man see a slightly decreased amount of coin coming through- he hid the worst of the numbers and kept them to himself. It was fair for Jorleif to get angry that Ulfric wasn't providing for his citizens under the assumption that he had plenty of funding to do it.

But, Ulfric was far too prideful to fully explain the problems he was facing, so he had to start getting clever about how he acted and what he said. it would be all too easy for him to have a slip of the tongue and all of a sudden Jorleif is running for his desk to get the ledgers for the city coffers and treasury. 

Either way, Ulfric needed to keep himself in check.

The steward's brows furrow and he stares with a confused look, suspicious of Ulfric's mood. He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head and grabs a mead from the desk. He examines the bottle, then says nimbly, "I thought you hated the sweet kind."

"Try it," Ulfric says, and the steward uncorks the bottle and takes a generous swig. He makes a sound at the back of his throat and coughs.

Jorleif wheezes. "That burns like a saber's clawed your throat out. Did you order this yourself?" he questions, leaning against the desk. Ulfric tilts his head away from looking at the parchments and frowns.

He has to think about it a little before he remembers. "It was from one of the maids. Odena, I think. She's been running a few test batches of home-brewed mead after she found recipes from her father. Something of that nature. She had them bottled and sold five crates for fifteen each to Galmar."

The steward scoffs. "'Course, she'd give the head general a fourth of the normal pricing for home-brewed, but never even think to tell me about it. Woman's going to run herself into a wall trying to win him over."

"Galmar never settles more than thrice. We both know it. That was her third time around if I recall correctly. She'll be doubling prices next and putting oil on his floor," Ulfric rolls his eyes. "It's never ended any different."

The man snorts then turns to loom over his paperwork, once more trying to find the proper way to respond. He finally gets his first response done, and Ulfric goes through about fifteen complains and notices before the steward speaks again. He's a third of the way through his mead, too, which means he won't have enough bottles to last the night and tomorrow morning. Disheartening, but the jarl ignores it.

Jorleif starts with a quiet sigh, making the jarl glimpse. "Ulfric, you've been different," the steward huffs.

"How so?" he responds curtly, taking a sip of the bottle's contents. The burn is similar to the Solitude Firebrand Wine, only less fruity and all-around better. It hits like a punch, so he can tell when it's time to put the bottle down, unlike wine.

"You're less... Well, I suppose I could say you're more active than usual. Easier to be around. Have you taken a fancy for a woman in bed? You should be telling Galmar and I these things, you know. You have far too much knowledge of our personal lives compared to our information of yours."

He snorts. "No, I am not seeing a woman currently. Nor have I been for a good long while. You would figure it out if I was, either way."

There's a pointed stare. "As much as I have faith in you, my jarl, we are growing old. You might want to-"

"Jorleif, we are not having this conversation," he grumbles. "Don't you start."

"I'm starting, Ulfric."

"Did I not just say-"

Jorleif continues with a lecturing gaze, "If you continue with your cold feet, I'll start telling the ladies of the court that you require a wife. We'll see how much refusing to converse works then, eh? Either way, women our age are already married or widowed, my friend. It's hard enough finding a woman over twenty, but a woman in a specific age span between thirty and forty who is not an utter horror is damn near impossible," Jorleif points out. "You'd best start looking now."

Ulfric protests in response, "I strongly differ from your views."

_ Diplomacy. I can settle this with words. My temper will be an unfavorable mark in my past, and nothing more. It will not continue. _

"You need heirs- official ones. You  _ need  _ to marry, Ulfric. This isn't a question. I would have thought you would be prepared for this."

The jarl scowls, standing his ground. "I will not speak of this, Jorleif. Not when there is an army out for my head and all those who hold their hope in our banners. If I found a wife and had heirs I might as well toss them into the ghost sea myself, for they'd be slaughtered like sheep no matter how many guards I could surround them with. Even then, the quality of life they would live would be poorer than being in the Bloodworks."

The steward sighs, groaning, "Dammit, Ulfric, had you gone out and told me your reasoning I wouldn't have spared another thought about this. I would ask you to trust me enough to explain why you do the things you do because Talos knows I cannot read your whirlwind of a mind, but I doubt me asking would change anything," he ends with a mutter.

"I will do what I can," Ulfric answers after silence had settled. His voice is unusually quiet. 

Jorleif lifts his brows. "You've still not told me why you are less irritable. Don't think I did not notice. Normally you would have scoffed and continued to work, but you did not."

_ Gods-blessed, it's almost like he wants me to be offensive. He can never let me off easy, either. Perhaps I should've chosen someone less persistent as my steward. _

Ulfric plants his elbows on the table with a  _ thunk  _ and joins his hands, his stare at the other Nord sharp and irritated. "Why must you be so adamant about this?" he mutters.

"Is it about Riften?" the man prods, putting down his quill.

He makes a disgusted noise. "Talos, no. Nothing good could ever come from that damn city."

Jorleif snorts. "What of troop movements? Winterhold? I thought it would be a close battle."

"It will be," Ulfric answers simply. 

"What then, in these times, has changed you? How is today any different than one year ago? You deal with the same people, do the same things, and-" he pauses, then his eyes widen. His back hits his chair and he scratches his beard. "Oh, I see," he murmurs after a while.

"What was it?" the steward questions, and Ulfric does not meet him in the eye, staring at the table.

"The last trip out of the city."

The steward swallows. The empty air is thick. "Have you seen her since? I haven't."

"The Companions took her in," the jarl responds stiffly. 

"You helped her."

"I did not say that."

"No, but the girl wouldn't have survived an hour out of the city walls and the Companions don't work around here. Not since the war started. She couldn't have made it on her own at five years of age, and certainly not with an empty coin purse. She likely won't remember."

"She will," he states. "I scarred her for life, Jorleif- you saw her. Do not try to make me feel better about doing it."

"You could have done much worse in a fouler mood, Ulfric," Jorleif says sharply. "What you did was beyond wrong, but it was not permanent and not purposeful. You're no tyrant," he points out. 

"I  _ shouted  _ at a child, Jorleif. Broke her wrist, smacked her head hard enough to daze her for a week, and all because she asked for food. I would reckon I at least fucking qualify."

"She was stealing, not asking. She attacked a guard."

"Who was ever there to tell her that was wrong?"

"Well, you."

The steward takes a swig of mead right after his words, then claps a hand over his mouth as he holds back laughter after seeing Ulfric's raised brows and stare of equal incredulity and disapproval. The jarl shakes his head as the other man chokes on his drink, coughing and laughing.

"Silda would be slapping you into your grave right about now," Ulfric comments, trying his best to keep his disapproving exterior.  _ This is not a laughing matter. This is not funny.  _ The jarl bites the inside of his cheek and harshly criticizes himself for wanting to laugh.

The steward, in silent laughter, nods and gets out, "Oh, what a woman, that one," and after a few moments of calming himself, adds, "I wonder who'll get one next."

"I would say Yrsarald, but then again, it is Yrsarald. The man wouldn't know a woman wanted him if she stood in front of him with a necklace of Mara for an entire month."

"I almost take pity on him. Do you think he would listen to me if I give him some help?"

"Absolutely not. Don't encourage him," Ulfric advises. "He'll blame you if your advice is executed wrongly by him. He does that to Galmar, and both of them have yet come to understand that."

Jorleif makes a noise. "So that's how they end up in brawls, other than Yrsarald pushing limits. Good to know. Isn't he going to be turning forty this year?"

The jarl pauses, then cringes. "I suppose. I still remember making him cry in leatherball."

The steward chuckles and says, "Bringing a nine-year-old into a game of leatherball with boys around fourteen is a terrible idea. I think that's the only time he and Galmar got along. Didn't they try to shred the ball after you and I got him in the face?"

"Yeah. Damn cowards," the jarl huffs.

"You hit like a thirty stone stag! The bruises would last for months, Ulfric!"

"Bolder hit harder. Son of a bitch broke two of my ribs when I was, what, nine? And still, my father never got another housecarl. Just old man Bold."

Jorleif snorts. "I reckon he quite liked beating you to Oblivion and back."

"Oh, without a doubt. He liked Jorag far more than myself."

The room falls into silence as the name hits the air. Ulfric can feel his chest shift, becoming open and hollow as if it's just air.  _ The grief is still there, even after all these years.  _ He hadn't exactly realized the comparison he made until instantly after he'd said it, and he reckoned he should stop drinking for tonight. He hadn't said that name for a long, long time, and for a good reason.

Jorleif sets down his quill, seeping it into his inkpot, and rests his left elbow on Ulfric's desk. His hand comes to cover his mouth, eyes lingering with contained grief as the jarl lets out a held breath, chuckling miserably. The other man is silent, waiting for Ulfric to speak first.

And after a good minute of only air and time passing, he does. "One would think I would be past it by now," he mumbles quietly, "I got my retribution. But, I suppose it does not work like that."

Jorleif inhales. "No, it does not," and he inwardly, he is so beside himself he cannot even fathom how to express his feelings upon Ulfric mentioning his younger brother even existing after nearly thirty years of never so much as even hinting about Jorag. Even Galmar, who hated his brother more than the Empire, still spoke of the drunken bastard now and then.

Ulfric had an odd way of dealing with painful things, and Jorleif reckoned his tactic was to not deal with them at all. But mention his younger brother? In real, active conversation?

It was almost like a hazy illusion.

"He probably wouldn't have made such a mess of things, I reckon. He was so damn good at everything. I resented him for it, of course. It's a wonder," the jarl shakes his head, musing, "how the cards played out. By all means, I should be dead."

Jorleif clears his throat. "It is good you hear you talk about him."

Ulfric goes still, then nods in agreement. "I can see how it would be," then pauses. "It... It is good to talk about him. Would that be valid to say?"

"It would."

"Good, then," Ulfric says clumsily.

_ Clumsy. I would never think to describe myself as such, but when matters of the heart come out to play, it seems that is all I can be. Even more so after a few too many meads. _

They do work for an entire hour, quietly exchanging information about various concerns. A maid enters, presenting cold cheese and various midnight foods, and Ulfric realizes she's Odena, the one who made the mead, from Jorleif calling her by it. 

She has two grandsons from her only daughter which the steward asks about. The daughter is once more carrying a child, about four months along, and is hopeful it will be a girl. The father of the children, who Odena dislikes, would rather another boy. The two haven't married, due to the father's insistence.

Odena then says she is looking for a replacement. Both Jorleif and Ulfric rapidly and noticeably backtrail in the conversation, making her laugh merrily as she walks off, pleased to have stricken panic in both of them.

After that, they continue working until dawn without distraction. Jorleif exits to his chambers to get an hour of sleep and Ulfric goes to his own to wash up for the day and change into formal attire, also dropping off the large pile of paperwork that he didn't want to do on a desk before he reached his room.

He feels groggier than usual after a night of no sleep. Usually, he would be able to shrug it off. Perhaps tonight he will sleep soundly, being so tired? He doubts it.

Ulfric takes his time readying himself, rolling his neck and moving his shoulders around to attempt to lessen their aching. One too many glances at the mirror as he changes makes him pause, examing the many welts on his back. 

They range from a light pink to a few shades lighter than his skin color, expanding all across his back and often crossing. A few wrap around his torso to his front, where a few arrow scars lie. Some of the scarred tissue on his chest is from a dagger, others from swords or axes. He would say that his favorite scar was a near-invisible one on his left inner wrist from a particularly angry young wolf that did  _ not  _ want to be kept as a pet.

He's got more scars than Galmar, despite not being in the field as long. He doesn't think he cares about them anymore. It doesn't phase him.  _ Would make a woman scream bloody murder, though.  _

On second thought, perhaps they do.

Groaning, the man throws his undertunic on and refuses to think more on the matter. The first report should be coming in from Galmar today, describing overall troop numbers, morale, plans, expected problems or possible advantages, and then any particularly snide comments the general decides to add about certain recruits. 

Very rarely does the man have good things to say about any of the men and women under the Stormcloak banner. With Galmar, the more he talks about someone in a report the bigger of a problem they have. He isn't a compliment-giving person, more of a glaring and hard personality with maybe-not-there-concern. 

If you look hard enough, the worry is there. Usually.

After that report, however, there's a planned citizen council to settle a particularly bad dispute between two parents, both wanting to take their son with them as they separate from each other. The mother has a record of three different jail times for theft and arson (stacked with apparent substance abuse; of what substance he knows not), and the father is in Ulfric's army, stationed as a first-line guard. 

On the father's record, he had not listed any children of his own. That in of itself was just about worse than the mother's charges. Part of joining the Stormcloaks is mandatory paperwork describing family as to put a soldier in the best fitting post for their situation. So, for example, a man with a wife would be put in the 'middle-lines', less likely to be put out in the front lines. Men or women with children under sixteen are put in the 'back-lines', usually posted as a city guard.

A man put as a first-line guard in his twenties would be one of the first thrown afield, being as he has no immediate family other than his parents and is over twenty. He has more capability than a sixteen-year-old and, as hard as it is to say, has less of a ripple in the tides if he were to not make it home.

But why in Oblivion would a father purposefully let himself be put into that position considering he has a partner and a son to care for? The action presents that the man either has no thought or he wants to be killed. 

The arrangements of how soldiers are put in different positions are explained in-depth to each and every recruit and there are always procedure books available in any Stormcloak post if one has questions. There is no plausible way the father did it inadvertently.

All in all, he's expecting the parents to be full of horseshit. The woman's known to be chin-deep in skooma and the man's a liar against sworn oath. Ulfric will personally kick the father out of the force if he has to. He hopes he will not.

The next hour and a half are spent reviewing the information that's been gathered for the case by Jorleif, other various staff, and Ulfric himself. Both parents have statements reasoning as to why they should be given custody of the son, Arvid. He will be turning eight in a month and Jorleif commented that he seemed to be an utter terror.

Maids will be taking care of him whilst the court is in session and Ulfric has no intention to bring the boy into it unless there seems to be no other choice. This decision was only strengthed when the steward had reported his concern. Arvid will only be brought in after the fact, with his parents out of the hall, to be explained the situation in a manner that is the least stressful as possible for him. 

If both parents are deemed unfavorable, Ulfric sent correspondence to Brunwulf Free-Winter, who agreed to take the boy if needed. The man is honorable enough and has been courting Elda Early-Dawn, owner of Candlehearth Hall, one of the two taverns in Windhelm. She's not able to conceive, as Ulfric has been told.

Jorleif convinced Ulfric to write the letter because if Brunwulf were to take Arvid, he'd no doubt marry Elda. Silda, before she passed, had been close with Elda and had always wanted the two to finally tie the knot. Jorleif had used every shred of guilt he could muster out of the jarl to make him do it. Mostly, Ulfric agreed because wasn't about to go and displease the dead and expressly not Silda.

Brunwulf certainly had his theories about Ulfric, which indeed would have been slightly true about twenty years ago, but weren't enough of a problem for the jarl to address them. He did not know Brunwulf well enough, which was ironic, because the man seemed to think he knew everything about Ulfric. He enjoys surmising, it seems.

_ But I will not express that thought. A man has a right to think whatever he damn well pleases, no matter how annoyed I may get at his incorrect statements. Then too, they are incorrect because I have withheld information, thus him making rash judgments. My irritation at him is a product of my secrecy. It's expected for people to point to the wrong trail when they don't know the right one exists. _

He considers discussing at least something __ redeeming about himself to Brunwulf. The man's good at understanding people, admittedly, just not Ulfric, which is to expected. He dissimulates everything he can about his personality, wealth, and thoughts. A well-placed sentence could make the man rethink things, but Ulfric decides to just let the man assume. It's not worth the time to explain, not now.

Either way, no one can logically see any true motives out of people after they come out of an Embassy. Concealing your thoughts is the attribute you get sufficient at while being tortured to death and back because it's the only way you will be able to get the fuck out. Ulfric knows that Brunwulf isn't aware he's been through the Thalmor's hands. The war veteran was in an entirely different location at the time. All he heard about was the Markarth mess, not what happened before. Not about Jorag, either. 

_ I should release a document on Markarth's mess before I die. Get some experience written down to outweigh some of what certain figures in Solitude creed. _

Ulfric inhales, breathing it out through his nose as a sigh, and gathers his papers. The hour-glass emptied, he heads out of his quarters to the war room to deposit the documents until the civil case begins. Brunwulf and Elda will be joining the court today and as a mannerly discretion, Jorleif invited them to the day's first meal of which the case will be soon after.

He enters the great hall with Ragmir and Tholund behind him, the replacements for Galmar while the man is on the field. Thankfully, they are tame today. 

_ They are terrible meddlers, though. I'm ready for Galmar to be back- it's dull without his banter. More food on the table without him, though. He eats like a boar. _

Breakfast is the usual assortment of meats, fruits, and bread. It never much varies, whereas lunch and dinner tend to. It's the same breakfast he had when he was a child, and to be fair, he still usually eats the same things, save for off days. Hashed brown potatoes and eggs were easy. The things Yrsarald and Galmar fashion some mornings, though? Equally as confusing as they were ridiculous. 

A bowl of ham, apple, egg, cabbage, and oats was one of the more complex creations, coined by Yrsarald. He tried adding egged-bread to it on a hungover morning with about a tankard full of syrup and ended up throwing up his guts for the rest of the day.

A few of the soldiers tried the mixture in small portions and ended up also in the infirmary for the rest of the day. The men named the mixture something as well, but Ulfric couldn't recall what it was. 

"My jarl," comes the greeting from Elda Early-Dawn.

"Lady Elda," the jarl returns.

"Jarl Ulfric," Brunwulf murmurs.

"Brunwulf," Ulfric addresses, then asks Elda as he goes to sit, "Elda, how does Candlehearth fair these days?"

"Well enough, my jarl. Fewer people coming through means less coin, but the soldiers make up for it during the winter," she answers. Jorleif and Wuunferth come into the hall, discussing something intently.

The mage is mid-sentence, claiming, "-but, on the other hand, your point is valid. It's just a tizzy, isn't it? You could say it happened in thirty different ways and have an infinite amount of reasons. Who knows other than him, at the end of the day? It's a house matter, at this point."

"You're right. I suppose the matter is settled," the steward says, sighing. "My jarl," he greets.

"Jorleif."

The court mage goes through the same procedure. Ulfric wonders how long it will be until Brunwulf airs his newest complaints, as he does every time he is invited to the throne hall.

Food is served and dished out. Ragmir and Tholund bicker. Jorleif talks to Elda about facilitating a brewery with the recipes Odena has been using. Wuunferth freezes Ragmir's drink after the guard makes a rude comment. Down the table, two female soldiers debate whether or not Yrsarald would be a good husband, adding lewd explanations to the title of 'Thrice-Pierced'. 

In precise words, "Are you sure it's from a sword, Kartia? What if he's pierced- well, you know. Under." 

Kartia responds cheekily, "I like the way you're going, Marlis," and the two break out in snickers.

The five male recruits around them look uncomfortable, exchanging disturbed glances. The dialogue is entertaining. Both ladies are likely in their late twenties and the lads are around sixteen to nineteen. No doubt, they're savoring making the unbloodeds flush red while they can.

Captain Avgorne is a little late and has a few feathers stuck in his gear, looking agitated. When a lieutenant asks, the man explains that his eldest son decided to wake him up with a pillow. The pillow ripped because he had hit his father so hard. Half of the captain's face was noticeably red.

Ulfric didn't point out the feather sticking up from the back of the man's collar, knowing full well that Yrsarald or Galmar would have. He drinks some water, maintaining composure. 

Tholund points it out for Avgorne, thankfully. A few moments later, Brunwulf finally speaks up. "Jarl Ulfric, a few of the houses in the Grey Quarter are deteriorating. The roofing, especially. Do you know if you would be able to assist?"

_ Everyone has done their own maintenance on their own roof in Windhelm for centuries. Why would they be any different? _

Ulfric responds, "Agna's mill provides roofing services, and if they choose to, they can also do it themselves. Everyone does their own house maintenance, as it has been since this city was built. The elves are no different. If they need scaffolding, they can take it up with Lortheim. He stores all of the equipment in a lower part of the temple, if I'm not mistaken. Jorleif, check me on that."

The steward chimes, "He does. But, I would go to Oengul to ensure there has been no deterioration. It hasn't been used in quite some time, though, after the war's settled, we'll be needing more of it."

Inwardly, Ulfric praises the man because he's damn right. "So long as they're not changing their homes in size, I do not need to be involved. They can solve it," he settles. 

"Fine. What of the Argonian assemblage being paid unequal wages compared to other workers?" Brunwulf adds.

Ulfric glances to Jorleif who nods. "I'll see what the problem is. I wouldn't expect immediate change, though. I've got a rough schedule for the next two months."

"So, it'll be brushed off, is what you are telling me."

"I'll talk to Torbjorn this next council," Ulfric mutters. "Do watch your tongue, Brunwulf. You don't know as much as you think you do."

"What much is there to know, my jarl?" the man snaps. "You don't help them because you don't want to. You tax them more. You have the coin to, you have the resources to, and you still do nothing. You're nothing like your father was."

_ That would be described as crossing a line, Free-Winter. _

The hall is still.

The jarl, who, if this exact event had been occurring two months ago, would be utterly furious and would have booted the man out, only raises his brows. "Are you stating that you've stolen city ledgers, Brunwulf?"

"What?" comes the quiet, confused response.

"Well, you've just told me I supposedly have the coin to assist the Dunmer. You must only be making that decision based only on hard evidence, correct? So, therefore, you must have seen the ledgers. Which is a crime, may I remind you."

"I haven't, my jarl, I swear upon it. Forgive me, I didn't mean to overstep." 

Ulfric stares. "You certainly overstepped your limits, but that is not the issue. Let me put it into a different example. Lady Elda, excuse me for this crude example, but you must be a wholly terrible woman to not have a man even want to court you. See, how that makes not a lick of sense because you, Brunwulf, are courting her and she's a very lovely woman? Now, let me rephrase this into the current situation. Let us say that you just told me I must be a bigot to not be assisting elves with my coin. The coin would be the courting in the previous example, except you do not know for certain if I am courting someone, or rather, have the coin. 

The jarl continues to stare. "Do you understand?"

The warrior makes a strangled sound. "I don't see your perspective."

Jorleif looks around, seeming anxious, as Ulfric replies smoothly, "Nonetheless, if you're going to throw those accusations, Brunwulf, at least have some evidence in writing. The archives hold all the tax information, with past ledgers as well. I know for certain neither you nor the elven populace has gone to check to see the laws of tax rates. Until you study them, do not speak of this matter to me."

Ulfric takes a bite of his food, ignoring that he's even just said anything. Brunwulf looks displeased and Elda seems to be ready to yell at him. 

_ Breathe, dammit. It's not that big of a deal. He only knows what he's told. I can't get sparked tempers from this, I've got to think about Arvid. The boy is more important. I can't make a biased ruling just because I dislike someone's opinions. Drem. _

"You're not going to throw him out?" guardsman Ragmir questions quietly after the hall erupts in whispers. "I've seen him throw people out for stuttering," he adds to his guardmate, shrugging as he swigs some mead. Tholund smacks him, looking appalled. Ulfric wants desperately to make a scene and indeed boot the veteran out, but he will not.

_ It would be childish. I can manage my anger in better ways. His doubts mean nothing.  _ Ulfric wants nothing more than to throw the man out, but he promised himself he wouldn't let his anger get the best of him. He reprimanded the action, and that is all he needed to do. Brunwulf can figure it out himself.

__ "Jorleif, was the report not due to come today, before morning meal?" Ulfric comments stiffly.

"It was. Must be late."

Ulfric ends the meal with two thuds of his fist on the table, most of his meal still on his plate and storms off to the war room, trying to remember his training as a boy from Arngeir. Three seconds in, three seconds out. His guards are clumsy to follow.

He's three seconds away from yelling at something. In a poor, split-second decision, he grabs a small throwing axe and violently heaves it into the wall, cracking through the stone on the opposite side of the room with a sickening sound. Ragmir and Tholund flinch.

Ulfric composes himself.  _ I'll be running laps tonight for that. _

Jorleif, who had just entered in a hurry, looks like his life has flashed before his eyes as he dazedly stares at the axe handle. The jarl takes a few deep breaths, curses, and goes to review the documents for the civil case once more. 

"My jarl?"

_ Jorleif did nothing wrong. Drem.  _ "What do you need?" he asks.

Distantly he thinks,  _ what would Jorag think of you, acting like this? He would be scared of you, wouldn't he? You're just as bad as you were. _

"My jarl, how low are we on coin, exactly? Are we..."

The jarl shakes his head. "Do not ask me another question about the coffers today. If anything, I will tell you after this war has been won, and only then."

"Understood, I will not press further. Sarna and Holgien's case will be commencing in half an hour. Arvid should be here in ten minutes or so. Would you like to speak to him?"

Ulfric hesitates.  _ I just heaved an axe at a wall and have a record of shouting at a child with the gift of Kynareth. Am I really the most stable person to be around a child?  _ "I'm leaving that up to you."

_ I have to do better with this lad, either way. I can't keep setting such a poor example, not to children, and not to the young men and women in my force. I started this war with the young in mind because they are the ones that matter. And yet, I set such appalling examples for what they should become. _

_ It will not continue. _

"Well, the maids aren't quite ready yet, so he'll likely be in here with us for now whether you want to or not. But Ulfric," the steward pauses, making the jarl glance to him as he says quietly, "why did you let Free-Winter stay after he said all that? He disrespected your position. Is that not dangerous to allow?"

_ 'I would ask you to trust me,' Jorleif had said.  _ Ulfric lets out a breath.  _ I can tell him this.  _ "Ordering Brunwulf out would be an act of poor temperament which would have likely affected the hearing. In becoming a jarl, I swore I would not give a biased response to the problems of my people," he replies, eyes lingering on the axe in the wall.

He continues. "I know that rule is broken by every jarl at least once in their lifetimes, else they are not a jarl at all, but I have done it far too many times. I will not have this one be another example- not with a young child on the line. Either way, the man knows what he did. He will not do so again, and pray for Talos to be kind if he ever does, for I will certainly not be."

The steward nods. "I would agree with your thought, though I will refrain from telling Galmar it. You know how he would take it."

Ulfric contains his anger, slaps it aside, and forces a snort. "That is why I appointed you as a steward. You're better with subtlety, where I and Galmar are admittedly lacking that diplomacy."

As he retrieves the axe from the wall and deposits it on the table near the wall, noting how the edge is bent and chipped, the steward adds, "I would say Galmar is a bit more than lacking, my jarl. I do not know if Galmar could ever be calm when it came to courtly matters or functions. He was worse back in the day, though. At least he's cooled off some," Jorleif rolls his eyes.

The door to the Palace of Kings opens and closes, resonating into the war room, and Jorleif exits briefly. Ulfric can hear Odena talking, introducing Arvid once again to Jorleif. He can't hear the boy say anything.  _ Boy's probably quiet. Same as the street girl. _

The girl he had shouted at hadn't ever asked for handouts as most deprived of a home did because she was so shy. Sofie, her name was. She was certainly going to become a criminal had he not interrupted that day, but at least she was in a proper home with a warm bed and food now. He remembers her being all bone.

He doubted she would go on to steal things for a living after the gift of Kyne's breath being used upon her for minor theft. That lesson would stick. It was not the right way to teach her not to steal, and Ulfric knew that well, but she learned some people were not as considerate as others, and thievery was unquestionably __ frowned upon.

A quick slap of the wrist would have sufficed much better, but Ulfric cannot change the past.  _ I will have to apologize to her someday. Extensively. I cannot have my pride hindering me on that matter. If I can keep the quills I've ordered intact for a few months, I'll have saved enough to send a few hundred septims to Kodlak for her upbringing. That would be a start. _

Jorleif enters with Arvid trailing meekly behind him. He's a touch lower than waist height, though the steward airs on the taller side, along with most of the Nordic population in Windhelm. A fair bit of the families date back to being started around Ysgramor's lineage, Jorleif's included, giving them taller frames.

Yrsarald is one to name who does not have such an inheritance, as he is from the farms outside of the city, about the third generation of his family. He's proud of his roots, and that's all that matters.

_ I _ _ came from a family of fishermen, at the end of the day. Galmar's house came from stone-workers. Brunwulf's family once were adventurers, making the first maps even amid winter and never being told or commissioned to do it. Every legacy starts humbly. _

Arvid asks if he can have an apple on the side table. Jorleif hands him one, remarking, "The only time we ever have any is when General Thrice-Pierced is out. You're lucky, son."

The boy nods and says nothing more, going to sit in one of the adjacent chairs without a word. The steward walks over to Ulfric, leans in, and murmurs, "No one's been disciplining him. He bit Odena, even. I don't think you'd want to deal with him."

"You have finalizations to do on the case, correct?" Ulfric questions, remembering what the steward had mumbled as he was gathering up his paperwork at the end of the night. The steward winces, nodding. "I'll watch him. Go and get started on them."

"Of course, my jarl. Arvid? This is Jarl Ulfric, he is in charge of the trial today. Do be nice, my jarl. I will take my leave," and he does. Arvid stares, the child's equivalent of hate mustered up into one look, and Ulfric only remains indifferent.

He continues reviewing the court documents, seeing as he will not be able to take them with him, making sure he's mentally laid out all of his points of discussion.

A few moments pass in quiet, Arvid only eating his apple and Ulfric mostly ignoring him. Until he mutters, "Why does a stranger get to choose where I go?"

The jarl can feel his temper flare again, but he does not falter. "You have worded your question incorrectly," and leaves it at that.

The boy scoffs. "Why do you get to choose where I go, sir?"

_ Boy's got an attitude. Can't blame him for it in this situation, but I can't have him biting my maids and thinking he can talk like this. He's got to have some clear boundaries. _

"I am not 'sir' because I do not know you, first of all. My title is Jarl of Eastmarch and you will address me as such, ask me as such, and communicate with me as such. Secondly, you will not disrespect me, young Arvid. The correct question would be along the likes of, 'my jarl, why do you choose how a trial ends?' without your lip. I am running on thin enough patience as it is."

Mockingly, "My jarl, why do you choose how a trial ends?"

"At least you have listened to something. I would respond with, 'it is my duty as jarl,' and ignore your snark, but-" 

The boy throws his apple core on the floor, kicking around his feet. Ulfric is gathering more and more of an impression of Arvid's father by the second from the lack of manners the boy has.  _ He's lucky it is me here. Galmar would be making him run laps with the current trainees. _

"Pick it up, there is a bin left of the table," the jarl mutters.

"Why? Don't you have-"

"I will not tell you twice," Ulfric maintains, looking up from his papers and using just enough harshness in his words for them to sting. For a few moments, the boy seems to freeze, then rolls his eyes and does as he is told.  _ There's a good kid in there somewhere.  _

Arvid returns to his seat and continues scraping his boots against the floor. The sound is like metal screeching against metal to Ulfric, but he ignores it. The boy was used to getting away with things, it seemed.

The jarl stops looking over the papers, then looks to the boy. "Arvid, do you know how to read or write?"

"No."

"No, my jarl. Say it," Ulfric asserts.

"No, my jarl," the boy mutters, staring at the floor.

Ulfric nods. "Good. Manners make you no less of a boy, Arvid. Do you have any questions about the council you would ask of me?"

He frowns. "What if neither my ma or my pa win? What then?" Ulfric raises his brows, staring. Arvid adds, cross, "My jarl."

_ A slight improvement is still progress, I suppose.  _ "You will be adopted into another's care, who is ensured to be a fit guardian. Do you think neither will be deemed favorable?"

"I hope so," Arvid murmurs. After a pause of silence, he stretches a bit, his tunic collar adjusting to where Ulfric can see a deep discoloration of purple. 

_ His mother is going to have a rough time today. _

Ulfric isn't subtle, and he never has been. "Where did you come to get that bruise on your collar?" he says, returning to the documents.

"I- I fell."

"You would have broken a bone or the bruise would not have been as noticeable," the jarl points out, ignoring the lack of title.  _ I need to make a law about not harming children at this rate. _

Arvid makes a sound. "I ran- fell into a door."

"Were you pushed?"

"N-no, my jarl."

"I see. Your father has been in the field. How often does your mother rough you up?"

"It doesn't hurt," the boy tries to declare. 

Ulfric turns around, saying bluntly, "Do not lie. Pain is pain. It makes you only strange if you say you do not feel it. How often, young Arvid? Perhaps once a week? Every day, even? Multiple times a day?"

"Stop it," he murmurs, beginning to tear up.

The jarl points out piercingly, "Does saying 'stop it' work with your mother, lad?"

In mere seconds, the boy's tough act crumbles and he's crying. He pushes himself off the chair, making for the door as his forearm comes to wipe his face. __ Ulfric moves, halting the boy with a hand. Arvid flinches, well enough of a sign that he's not used to non-violent gestures.  _ I'm going to set him straight, right here, right now. There are lessons that need to be anchored into this boy and I have the opportunity to do so.  _

Ulfric kneels, hands resting on the boy's shoulders. "Listen, boy," he begins, maintaining eye contact as Arvid attempts to compose himself, "you have a duty to yourself to speak up. Understand? If you don't want to be with your mother, say it. You're doing no one any favors by keeping silent about the things that matter. Then, too, you're not doing yourself good by lashing out at others. Learn from your mother's actions- you do not like being kicked around, so do not treat others that way. Hold yourself to a higher expectation."

"I don't mean it," Arvid chokes out, trying to wipe the tears away.

_ That wasn't that hard. I would have thought he would have resisted more. _

"Apologize, then, and do the right thing," the jarl says stiffly. "Now, the maids will be here at any moment, so you must compose yourself. I'll get an earful from Steward Jorleif if he hears I've terrorized another child. Still," he pauses, waiting for the boy to meet his eyes, "you are better than this. Understand?"

"Yeah," he sniffles.

"Come now, have I not reprimanded you enough? Shall I douse you into the Ghost Sea to get you to remember? Try it again," the jarl threatens, though mockingly.

"Yes, my jarl," Arvid corrects himself quickly.

Ulfric stands, then adds, "You will apologize to the maid you bit. Her name is Odena. And, you will tell Steward Jorleif you are sorry for being rude to him. I expect you to be on more becoming behavior for the rest of your time in my halls. That means you will pick up after yourself and treat my staff with proper regard from now on, is that clear?"

The boy nods. "Yes, my jarl."

A few moments later, the door opens. Ulfric glances to the door and says, "There you are, Odena. Have the parents of young Arvid arrived?"

"Not yet, my jarl," she answers cheerily. There is a sizeable bite mark on her left hand that she covers by moving her arm behind her.

"Good. Could you send for the boy to be checked by Court Mage Wuunferth?" Arvid's brows knit as Ulfric says this, his confusion evident. 

Odena, the motherly person she is, gasps. "Why, of course. I'd hate for him to have caught a cold on the journey here. Come now, you little lion, there may or may not be desserts for you in the kitchens. If! and only if, you are good to Court Mage Wuunferth!"

Arvid follows the woman obediently, saying just before the door closes, "I'm sorry for biting you, Miss Odena."

Ulfric clicks his tongue after a few moments of silence. His eyes trace the walls. With a long inhale, he goes back to review the paperwork, the deep purple bruise on the boy at the forefront of his mind. He had caused similar pains before, and once again, he sees how easily it can tear someone apart.

_ I am sorry, Jorag, for all I have done to you, and what it caused you to turn to. It's about time I start making up for it.  _

Arvid was living with Brunwulf within a week. His mother was too drunk to stand, an hour late to the trial, and his father didn't harbor even mild care for him, calling him a mistake better off never having been born. The man was tall and dark-haired, seemingly the one Arvid took after in looks.

Ulfric settled the case within a half-hour of advisory with the council appointed for the case, most of it discussing plans for Brunwulf to be able to accommodate for Arvid in his home and Elda's role in the situation. After it, he went to the Temple of Talos and prayed for a good hour, trying to sift through some of the anger the day had brought. From the disgraceful parents of Arvid to the boy's disrespect, and of Brunwulf's outburst.

And he thought about his younger brother, being at the tender age of eight like Arvid. He could not remember much, only that Jorag had gotten bucked off a horse and broke his arm because Ulfric had spooked the mare, finding it hilarious right up to the point he heard Jorag scream.

He remembers that being the only time he would recognize what he was doing wasn't right- when Jorag would scream in that particular way. His brother didn't cry about it, didn't say a word after the fact, and never held anything against Ulfric for it. 

_ How did I lock him away for so long?  _ Ulfric knows the answer. He knows the answer, knows the memory, but he can't stomach it. Not now.

He prayed for Arvid and Sofie, wishing them peace and hope. He prayed for his young brother, hoping Jorag knew that he held only guilt and shame for all the things he had done to him. 

He asked for strength, for Talos knows, the days will be rough ahead. 

After this, he assisted in training recruits and missed lunch. He did not see Arvid again that day, being as he was running behind. He probably shouldn't have taken the time to go to the temple, but he needed to clear his head. The night was spent working off the day's frustrations, and he fell asleep a few hours after midnight and woke before dawn.

Throughout the week of Arvid staying, Ulfric assigned him to a room near Wuunferth so the mage could ensure he healed properly after he got the report from the man. Turns out, the boy had poorly-set bones from breakage that had to be re-set and was underweight, causing him to be considerably shorter than he should be. The mage wasn't exactly skilled with restoration magic, thus making the healing process take a little more time and care.

Jorleif's room was also nestled in that area. Ulfric got to listen to an hour of the man's ceaseless chatter about the boy. If, gods forbid, another child is in need of a home, Ulfric is near certain Jorleif will strive to adopt them.

A younger maid named Fina took care of the boy most of the day when Jorleif was busy. Reportedly, Arvid would scutter out of her sight while she did chores and talk to guards and other maids, begging them to teach him what they knew about various skills that he did not know even existed until they told him. 

Ulfric started to teach the boy how to write but halted after Ragmir asked if he was going soft like Jorleif. He told Fina to do it instead, and he may or may not have made a few extra trips to the archives to see how the boy was progressing. 

The jarl also instilled some more manners into Arvid by some mild mischief, telling the boy that if he said please and thank you more to others he might get more sweets. He was in a good mood that night.

Brunwulf and Elda visited throughout the week, improving relations with the boy. The veteran also sheepishly came to Ulfric the night before Arvid was to leave, saying, "I hadn't known what the taxes were set as before," and Ulfric glared and told him to leave. He had been irritable that day.

The night after, Arvid left, gloomily saying his farewells to all he had met, going so far as to hug Fina and Jorleif, once more apologizing to Odena. There was a tense silence as he went to leave, pausing right before he crossed the threshold to give a little wave to Ulfric, who rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion from the grand table, papers strewn across it.

Jorleif commented about it the next morning and Ulfric told the man he was delirious. He was in a bad mood that morning, but that didn't make his words necessarily true. Either way, without Arvid bouncing about, the concern over the battle for Winterhold began to settle in thicker than it had. 

There had been no report. That, nine times out of ten, meant it was a massacre. Ulfric was readying himself for a bloodied scout to come running through his hall at all hours of the day, screaming, "We've lost Winterhold! General Galmar and Thrice-Pierced are no more!" and promptly die.

_ I'm sure some bards would get a kick out of that. _

However, there was no near-death scout and still no word, so Ulfric sent for a courier before dinner. Brunwulf, Elda, and Arvid wouldn't be attending, as Jorleif decided they needed to continue bonding before the boy could continue education with Fina every day. Mostly, though, the steward needed to rearrange her schedule so Wuunferth could begin teaching her Nordic, as she hadn't ever learned, and for her to plan lessons for the boy. She would do half of her normal daily tasks, the rest of them being handed off to the newest maid who had gotten ahold of the ropes.

Also during the week, Ulfric and Jorleif continued to do Yrsarald and Galmar's paperwork. The stack of papers Ulfric chose not to complete every day grew, becoming a formidable foe that would take at least an entire night to go through. It contained the worst of all the things he and Jorleif had to muddle around with. Ulfric did not tell Jorleif why he was compiling them, nor did he tell where he was depositing them. The steward only handed over the longest and most irritating things he came across.

On another matter, Ulfric was frankly tired of having Ragmir and Tholund around. They were distracting and nosy, and not in a good way. The two would gossip like Cyrodillic noblewomen and it made him have to start posting them a door across from the room he was in because they would try to eavesdrop, like  _ pests _ .

_ I'll have to get Galmar to straighten them out,  _ Ulfric thought. Dinner was some sort of dish with beef- it was not a favorite, but it was certainly edible. He was lucky to be able to keep his kitchen staff, to tell the truth. 

Ulfric turned to address the courier after swallowing a mouthful of food, ready for the day to be over with. "I'll need you to go to Fort Kastav and check on the situation there. Pay is three-hundred septims if you get back in two days, two-hundred if it's three, and a hundred if it's four."

The lad, probably around twenty, nods. "I'll be back in two days, then, my jarl."

"As you say," Ulfric dismisses, glancing up when the doors to the hall open. Usually, the guards don't allow visitors during meals. Abruptly he waves the courier back and shakes his head, dismissing him and his task.

Jorleif started as the jarl leaned back in his chair, waiting, "I think two days was a little-" the man started.

"We've done it, lads! Winterhold is still blue as ever!" came Yrsaralds unmistakeable yell, and the courier visibly deflates as the hall erupts in cheers and applause, loud enough that Ulfric can't even hear his own thoughts. He feels moderate relief, but annoyance at the younger man's dramatics. Could he not have just come in through the door and said the battle had been won  _ after  _ the meal?

Galmar enters through the doors not moments after, slaps the back of Yrsarald's head hard enough to make the other general recoil and hold his head with a hand, and promptly rips Ragmir and Tholund out of their seats after jogging to them. Odena hastily gives him a plate, then hustles off for cutlery and a drink.

Jorleif gags at the man's smell, moves from his seating, and says, "I'll ask about the battle after you've bathed. Ulfric, don't forget about the council and citizen meetings coming up. I'll be in my room," and speeds away with his plate and a half-drank mead. The maid gives silverware and mead to Galmar, then rushes off once more to fill drinks.

Ulfric only asks Galmar, "How bad were the casualties?" as he eyes Yrsarald talking merrily to a group of female guards, who seem impressed for once.  _ I don't know if that's good. _

The housecarl cuts a steak in half on his plate after grabbing it off a platter, shoves half of it in his mouth.  _ Ah, tactful as ever. _

After a few moments, Galmar gruffs out through a mouthful, "Twenty-six."

Wuunferth takes an interest. "I heard the battle was going to be harsh. Twenty-six doesn't seem like as many as there have been in smaller skirmishes."

The man nods, swallows his food, and answers, "We got a few more healers that signed up. Most of the casualties were men who'd come in through the enlistment option instead of fully-trained recruits because they were ready to go. In Sovngarde may their souls rest."

The statement is repeated throughout the table in respect for the dead before the general continues. "The mages were especially helpful for this battle, so for any part you played in that, know it was useful. I heard you sent a request to the college to spread the word about the enlistment which sent those healers in, also."

"I do what I can," the court wizard says plainly. "Can't just be lazing around all day, can I? Did they send in Ylsa?"

"I believe that was one of the healers' names."

"Good. If you ever encounter her, do tell her she needs to visit me without me telling her first. Woman's travels like a disease and yet she still never bothers me with her lectures. Pitiful, I call it."

"I won't," Galmar responds.

The wizard huffs. "I'll scry her then."

Avgorne's younger son, Vorne, commented to his father quietly, "Does he like the mage or not? I can't tell."

The father responds gently, "I believe he's fond but envious."

"Oh," murmurs the twelve-year-old. His elder brother chuckles.

Seeing the dynamic between the two brothers is consoling some days, and a plague others. It's a reminder of what Ulfric and Jorag could have been, which keeps the jarl up at night. Recently, staring at the empty spot in the family line where his brother's name should be has been his favorite past-time torture.

_ And to think, two weeks ago I didn't spare a thought of him. How many other things have I chosen to ignore? It's no wonder why I have difficulty communicating.  _ Behind Galmar, Ulfric can see Yrsarald and a young Nord approaching. He snaps himself out of his head and focuses on the present.

"General Yrsarald, I don't think this is necessary," comes a meek statement from the lad of about twenty to the Eastmarch General. As they near, Ulfric refuses a mead from Odena and instead asks for water.

"Sure it is, kid! Jarl Ulfric, this here is Ralof. The scout from Winterhold," the man introduces plainly.

Ulfric stares at the general, slightly peeved at all the excitement. "Fine work you've been doing, scout. Keep it up," he settles for, addressing Ralof instead.

"I'm transferring him to you," the general states gleefully, then says, "take my spot, kid, I'm going to mingle," and leaves Ralof to fend for himself. Ulfric doesn't even have time to dismiss him before he's gone.  _ The things he does when he gets overly excited are highly irritating. _

Galmar snorts, rasping his knuckles against the spot to his right. "Sit, scouty. You've earned the meal," the man then turns to Ragmir and Tholund across the table, beginning to discuss what he missed whilst afield.

"Oh, uh- thank you, miss," the lad murmurs, taking a plate given to him by a rather frantic Odena who hadn't expected a celebration and was now attempting to hand out plates to anyone who had entered behind the two generals. Most men would have drifted to Candlehearth, which, Ulfric realized, wasn't being kept by Elda.

_ Oh, boy. Arvid's going to be put to work the second Elda finds out the tavern's packed full. _

Hesitantly, the new addition to the head table fixes himself a plate much politer than Galmar did, quietly introducing himself to Captain Avgorne and his two sons. Internally, Ulfric begins laying out a speech for after the meal, methodically going through a few ways he could choose to talk about their victory.  _ Disclosing our next aim would be foolish. I should likely just be praising the success and reiterating that hangovers are not viable reasons to not show up to posts tomorrow. _

It will be a late night again. The jarl's had an entire week full of them, and to be frank, he's sick of it. He is running on meads, which makes his moods irregular and usually negative. Then too, the recent thoughts of Jorag have been distracting.

_ I'll pull Galmar and Jorleif aside in a few days.  _ Then, he scolds himself with,  _ and when has 'a few days' ever come for any other problem? No. I have to do it this Morndas. I have to get it off my mind, and the only way to do it is to say what happened. I've recognized my problems and I will put effort into solving them. Else I'm no better a man than Rolff. _

Tentatively, Ralof strikes up a conversation with Wuunferth. The wizard is purposefully abrash and impolite, determined not to get to know a young soldier in times of war. Despite this, the lad continues to carry on questioning the mage about how restoration works, even when limited, rude answers are all he gets.

After a few minutes of back and forth, Ulfric interrupts with a bored comment. "If you two continue this discussion I'm going to cut your wages."

Ralof pales, but Wuunferth snorts. "Is that not illegal, to cut pay without substantial reasoning?"

"It is. I would convict myself a criminal because I would prefer the rats in the Blookworks than your aloof answers," Ulfric follows monotonously. Avgorne's eldest, Bjorne, spits out his drink all over himself in an attempt to not laugh. Vorne cackles and the father of the two scolds them both. 

Ralof seems to glance to the court mage in confusion, not knowing how to react. Wuunferth makes a disgusted noise being he has been outwitted by a man twenty years younger, then resumes eating. Galmar abruptly yells at Ragmir, his curses for once drowned out by the noisiness of the hall.

_ I'm getting a headache, at this rate. _

As if on cue, Galmar's sharp whistle between two fingers is deafening, silencing the hall as he belts out, "Fuckin' quiet down, you lot! You're sitting next to each other! Gordrid, I can hear you from over here!"

The order is heeded, and Ulfric comments a few moments after, "I wonder if you'll be able to speak in ten years."

"Likely not," the man answers roughly. "What's the fuss over the kid that came by? Adrik or something? Heard he was a biter."

"Arvid. His parents were unfit and I gave custody to Brunwulf. He left last night after a week of stay."

"He get told off for biting Odie? I'd reckon he'd have just kept biting if someone hadn't."

Ulfric readjusts his shoulder, trying to get the persistent ache to die down. "Aye. He's got some lessons set up for education."

Galmar blinks. "You shout at him?"

Avgorne whistles lowly, saying quietly, "And that'll be about time we go, boys."

"Wait," Vorne breathes.

"I did make him cry," Ulfric admits, "but his mother did the damage."

"You sure you didn't beat the everliving shit out of him?"

"He is wholly unscarred from my violent wrath," Ulfric responds, mildly annoyed.

"Jorleif tell you what to do?"

"He did not. I supervised the boy for a few minutes and that was it."

Galmar tilts his head back a bit, eyes narrowed slightly.  _ He's come to some conclusion.  _ "You helped him."

_ How does he know when he wasn't even here? Absurd.  _ "And why do you say that?"

A wide grin spreads across his face. "Because you've just defended it."

Ulfric stares for an extended period of time at his eldest friend, who merely titters to himself, entirely  _ smug,  _ before shaking his head and taking a bite of venison from his plate. Inwardly, he curses the man out colorfully, irritated that Galmar can bluff his way out of everything and angry at himself for not catching it after how many cursed years of the man pulling the same stunts.

Vorne murmurs, "Was that mean or joking?"

Ralof whispers back, "I can't tell."

Avgorne adds, "No idea."

Wuunferth then says sourly, "It's surely not like we're at the same table and they can hear you all."

"What's it matter to you, Vorne?" Galmar questions, raising a brow.

The boy shrugs. "I wanna know if there's going to be a fight."

"I'd reckon that was a great conversation, lad."

Ulfric recoils, saying spitefully, "I'll not be ridiculed by you at my own table, Galmar."

"Who's to say I'm mockin' you? Ain't it your fault that you admitted to caring about some kid?" Galmar throws back. "Not my fault you got your poor feeling hurt."

"I'll have you know I can kick you out."

"Go ahead. Do it."

"By order of my right as jarl I hereby-"

"No, no, no- Ulfric, I'm eating! I've just won a battle for you!" Galmar objects, then after a tense silence mutters, "I can't stand drinking at Candlehearth anyway."

"What was that, an  _ apology _ ?" Ulfric prompts aggressively.

"I am-" Galmar abruptly gags. 

The jarl mutters, "And you say I have a problem with pride."

The night continues with their good-natured bickering, though Ulfric isn't fully attentive. He's distracted by his thoughts.

Hours after dinner and the speech for the victory, Ulfric and Galmar stand in the hallway that leads to their rooms, talking idly before they retire for the night.

"I assume that'll be all that happened, then?" Galmar questions, crossing his arms.

Ulfric answers nonchalantly, "There was some paperwork I and Jorleif weren't able to get through that I left on your desk."

The other man frowns. "You and him go through paperwork before I can say my name."

Ulfric shrugs, beginning to walk to his quarters while the other man stands still. "I knew they were your favorite," and hears as Galmar slams open the door to his room, observing with equal fury and horror of the papers covering his desk.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, you did not!" comes Galmar's muffled scream, voice ripping with utter rage.

The jarl just barely locks his door in time so the other man doesn't come barreling through it, the corners of his lips slightly peaked upwards. It is not often he angers Galmar purposefully, so he treasures the moment.

As the wood shakes from the weight of Galmar throwing his entire body weight against it, Ulfric goes and starts the pipes for a wash, pleased to find there is hot water. When he was younger, the water would always be chilled by now.

He withdraws his hand from under the faucet, forearms resting on the edges of the tub. He watches as the water begins to rise and attempts to rid a single thought in his mind that gives him a terrible idea. It's been rattling around for hours.

Throughout the rest of the night, despite doing a few drafts of defense plans and patrol routes and preparing for the upcoming council and day of citizen complaints, it lingers.

Finally, at about midnight, he can't stand it anymore. He goes to a nightstand next to his bed and withdraws a key from the drawer, the amulet of Talos resting against his collarbone feeling unusually heavy.

_ It is time I face the past, and his room will be the first step of many.  _


	3. The Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe that'll knock some sense into you, ya blithering fucking fool."

Winterhold had an exceptional way of exhausting the soul of someone. From the unrelenting bite of cold and snow year-round to the ruins of homes that had once held joy and memories, there was an air of sorrow. It feels like a fog, suffocating those trapped inside it. 

The people here are bitter and unforgiving. Prone to grudges and fast judgments. They've been here all their lives, seen the same thing happen year after year. Not very surprising that they would be so cold, both in their hearts and in their fingers. But, they persevere. Giving in is always an option for them, but they don't. They fight back the beast of failure with broken and worn tools, overcoming challenge after challenge. 

Ylsmerea has only been to the city for the College of Winterhold, as she often gets invited to do lectures, review research, or help with experiments. She does much more than that, but that was the initial agreement. She's always slept in the beds the college provides and been right out when her obligations were fulfilled. The sour nature of the citizens didn't bother her- she often had things to do other than listen to hearsay. She's a busy woman, after all. The water wheel of life for people often gets jammed, and for some reason, she's always volunteered to dive under the water to fix it. Makes for a lot of work, trying to figure out what is lodged in the wheel, how it got there, how to get it out, and how to prevent any more blockage.

Sometimes there is only one stick. Sometimes there is an entire branch. Other times it is a bone from the boy who went missing years ago, the dirty secret no one speaks of. Either way, the more people you have, the more times it ends out being the latter. The better pay too.

So, she hadn't tried to make friends in the city. Not enough people and too much poverty. She would do more harm than good if she offered her normal services. Even if she offered them free, she doubted the people would accept them.

However, fate works in odd ways. After doing her college business (a brutal critique of a student's master thesis on combining differing magic schools, four lectures, arguing with the other restoration master, reviewing the magic the Arch-Mage had schemed up, and more) she had stopped at the local shop to sell off a few extra trinkets she had found. 

The store was quaint, decorated sparsely and minimally. It was warmer inside than it was outside, and for that Ylsa was grateful. A few empty mead bottles rested on a shelf in the corner of the room, nearby a spot on the wall that was remarkably clean. A few nail holes marked the outside of the area.  _ A trophy of some sort. Had to be taken off recently. Sold?  _

The young woman running it seemed a little worse for wear at first sight. "Good morning, ma'am," she says politely. "What will you be needing today?"

The mage pauses then responds, "That depends on what you have for sale. I go by Ylsa."

Her eyes, a light hazel, brighten. A thin smile lines her face, more forced than unfriendly. "Birna. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance. I have jewelry if you're a woman so inclined," she reveals a leather pouch she'd likely stored on the shelves under the counter. Opening it, she carefully takes the item out of its cloth wrap and displays a silver amulet with a few garnets embedded in it. "Five-hundred septims. I've had it for a few months now, and I would bet it would look stunning on you, miss Ylsa."

It doesn't take a fool to know that the necklace is horribly overpriced and the younger woman is trying to flatter her way out, but the mage takes a closer look at the jewelry anyway. If the merchant had the necklace in stock for a long time, it meant that no one was able to buy it in town and the locals probably were offered a much better price for it as it is. 

"Who was the smith of it?" Ylsa questions, glancing up. She readjusts the pack on her shoulder, taking notice that the firewood stock for the hearth in the small room is low. 

_ Warmer than outside, but not by much. The entire house must be cold if the main fire is nearly out, though. Does she have a drinking husband?  _ "Eorlund Grey-Mane."

A flat-out lie, but an understandable one. Ylsa has seen the work of the smith and he wouldn't stand for the jewels not to be placed correctly. Most telling, though, is he certainly wouldn't let anyone other than himself or his wife sell the things he makes, much less a trader in Winterhold.

She fishes out the coin for it and puts the pouch of it down. "I'll take it," she sighs.  _ I just had to get involved, didn't I? Now I'll have to come back any time I'm here and buy more things I'll never use. I have enough as it is. _

The young woman happily packs the jewelry back up and hands it to her. "Anything else, ma'am?"

"I don't think so. May the gods be generous and the winter mild," the mage smiles, exiting the shop seconds before the woman inside realizes that the traveler overpaid by a hundred septims.

A groan leaves her lips, making the air before it turn a billowy grey. Her nose and ears redden quickly from the chill. Her empty stomach churns.  _ A rest before starting the journey to Whiterun wouldn't hurt.  _ She makes her way to the tavern, feet tapping up the stairs and her thick shawl tightly tucked around her.

She desperately wishes she hadn't misplaced her winter cloak this last summer. She'll have to use more magic than she'd like in the open without it and that attracts attention. People watching her isn't one of her favorite feelings. As she opens the door, she can feel her hands grow clammy.

"Look, Assur!" a young girl grins, waving from the fire in the middle of the room. She couldn't be older than ten. A boy of the same age nearby scoffs, mimicking her and causing her to glare at him. The main hall of the inn holds six people with four doors that she presumes are rentable rooms.

Ylsa chuckles off her hesitance, glancing at the barkeep who rolls his eyes at the children's behavior. He's in his late forties, it seems, his blond hair tied back with a clean-shaven face. "Morning. What have you got on the menu?" she greets.

"Beef stew, eggs and meat, or biscuits and gravy," he answers. "The stew is leftovers from last night, so it's cheap and faster to make than the rest."

"I'll take it," she decides, taking a seat at the bar. He nods, goes to a woman nearby, and has a quick conversation. Ylsa glances at the children still arguing while she waits. 

He comes back not long after. "Any drinks for you?" he offers. "Ten septims for a bottle of mead, two for a tankard of water."

"A water, please," she requests. Within moments, it's placed in front of her.

"So, you're on college business?" he assumes. 

She takes a sip of the water and nods. "I'm a contributing member. Had to do a few peer reviews, explain to an adeptly leveled student the basic principles of magic- all the boring, scholarly things we mages do."

Surprisingly attentive to their conversation, he frowns. "I was under the impression that all members in good standing stayed on campus."

"Oh, certainly not. If you complete a course, you're considered a contributing mage of the college. All court wizards are members of the college, for example, because they all took their fair share of classes. Other than if you are lucky enough to be a court mage, you get called in for various duties now and then. I believe they have to renew their masterships every decade, though," she explains. "I was an especially bright student so I get requested more often than most do. The Arch-Mage is quite upset that I haven't chosen to stay on campus, but I think I'd go rather mad," she chuckles.

He raises a brow, smiling. "Really? I've never heard of a mage that didn't want to get accepted into a full-time position."

"As the college already has all mastery positions filled, I would be one of the first to be picked up when drafting season starts because I'm not essential to the college. I don't have much of an opinion about the war right now, but I'm not going to happily join the Empire."

A man strides up to the bar mere moments after she says her words, dressed in a uniform that she's assuming would be Stormcloak by the bear teeth talisman. He gestures to his mead and while the barkeep goes to grab another, he sits on one of the stools. He glances at her.

"Not much of an Imperial lass, then? Could have fooled me," he declares, his left brow raising the slightest bit. He's about average height for a Nord, with the signature blue eyes and strong frame. He seems young, maybe in his twenties. Despite his age being inferior to hers, he has a weighted air around him. She feels on edge from him only sitting a stool away.

_ How do people manage that? I can never tell. Is it battle-inherited?  _ Ylsa's lips spread thinly. "I was born in Falkreath."

"That'll do it," he quips as the other Nord gives him a mead.  _ I'm on thin ice, but he won't kick me out, at least. _ "General Kai Wet-Pommel. I lead the Winterhold forces for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak."

She whistles. "How'd you manage to land the position? You're rather young."

"I worked," he says simply. "You know, the hard labor thing you mages don't have to do."

_ And here we go.  _ "I'll let you get a few digs in," she looks to him, eyes as cutting as her simple smile, "but no more than a few."

"Fair enough," he muses. "What magic do you do? The... school, right?"

"I study the schools of restoration and illusion. Those are my official masters, at least," she answers. At his hesitation, she explains. 

"Restoration revolves around healing. Illusion focuses on changing perception."

His eyes narrow. "Isn't that the one that makes people kill their brothers?"

"Magic is just like your sword, General. It can be used for nefarious purposes or for good," she replies as a bowl of stew is placed in front of her. She thanks the innkeeper and who she presumes to be his wife. They both smile in return.  _ Nice folks. _

"I suppose. I'd take steel over magic any day."

"I would too."

The general turns his head, confused. "You're a mage."

"Magic has a will of its own. It can kill a mage if it wants to. Your steel can't corrupt your mind like that," she responds, then turns around to snap at the boy hassling the young girl. "Could you be any louder?"

"You're a dirty rotten mage!" he snaps in return.

"And yet you're acting more uncivilized than me!" she exclaims. "You act like a mage."

He glowers, "Shut up."

"See?  _ Mage. _ "

Jokingly, she had said it. But as the boy fumed, a sharp spike of magic coursed through her arm in response, a clear sign that the young boy was no different than her. Right then, she decided she was certainly not going to be the one that told him or brought it out- she had already done enough by helping out that merchant. When he responded to her, she only turned around and continued eating. Finally, the girl yelled at him, and then they were back at their little spat again.

"That's the jarl's son," the general murmured, "a menace."

She rolls her eyes to him, saying, "Give him time. Eventually, he'll have to go and meet the other children of jarls. Either they knock him down, or their parents will."

The man frowns, asking distractedly, "If you wouldn't mind, how old are you? I can't even guess."

The barkeep murmurs something to his wife, who laughs merrily. 

The mage snorts. "Thirty-eight."

"Oh," he murmurs to himself dejectedly.

Silence settles after that, with her finishing her food and him thinking and sipping his mead. When she finishes, he asks, "So, you're a healer, if I heard right."

_ Gods above, grant me patience.  _ "I am."

"I'm in need of healers, you know. Or, we are. The Stormcloaks. We pay a good rate," he offers. He's stumbling over his words and his cold exterior is entirely gone. The general isn't so stiff after all.  _ A good lad at heart, just a little green. _

She stares at her tankard of water. "How much?"

"Two thousand septims for four months."

_ Interesting. A little bit less than the Empire's medics, but I suppose they do seem to like dedication. If you're in it for the money, they don't want you. The general must be bending the rules, trying to bribe me with coin.  _ "If I were to accept your offer, give me an idea of what would happen after."

"You would be sworn in and then put in my unit, supposing you take the official route. If you're especially good, General Stone-Fist will see what to do with you. I know that we don't have a lead healer right now."

"The official route?" she questions.

"A sworn soldier, under the command of Jarl Ulfric. Unofficially? We allow citizens to aid as they please. If you were to conveniently show after a battle and offer your services, I can throw some coin your way and mention your name in the report. There's a battle brewing, and I'd reckon it'll be starting soon. Your help could save lives. Let my men return home to their families."

She raises a brow.  _ I needed to have a talk with the jarl, didn't I? I can hang around for a few days.  _ "I'll be staying around for a few days, General. No more than four."

His lips quirk up. "I knew you'd come around."

** \---------- **

The day wasn't going that well.

Jorleif had decided to host a gathering along with the monthly council, conveniently forgetting to tell Ulfric until three hours before it was to start. Supposedly, the reason for it was for the younger generation to begin settling into their future roles and for them to be more comfortable with stepping into the places of their forefathers. The title of jarl's council was nothing to be taken lightly, after all.

But Ulfric didn't want them to be comfortable. These were his halls. He made the choices and no one is in the Palace of Kings to be comfortable.  _ I am not even at ease. The only person that theoretically could be would be my future wife, and by all means, she'd best be content. If not, she can walk right out for all I care. _ Still, the council is in place to get things done, not to have a good time. Councilmen and women should be on their toes, not lounging and  _ comfortable. _

If a council member became complacent in their position, they were not doing what they were supposed to be doing. They became lazy and uncooperative, overly stubborn. For example, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield, who Ulfric was planning to give a warning to. Now, he had to be more careful. He had to be gentler. He couldn't go and scare the man's wife and twin daughters- Jorleif would be livid and it would reflect badly on him.

All in all, Ulfric did not want children in his halls. Particularly not Torbjorn's girls and Torsten Cruel-Sea's daughter. The three of them are terrible to each other, constantly testing boundaries and being intolerable, but Ulfric can't do a damn thing. It's not like he can walk up to them and tell them off like he could with Grimvar, Torsten's son, or Arvid. Torsten's girl, Fjotli, is rather quiet anyway. She usually gets swept away by her mother when the twins' hissy fit starts.

And yet, here he stands, talking with Torsten and Hillevi about the weather, observing as Arvid, Grimvar, and Yrsarald wrestle on the floor. Ulfric can't focus on it without risking some unneeded memories showing themselves and quickly shifts his attention to something else. Galmar holds a conversation with Torbjorn near the war room, and the man's twin daughters, Nilsine and Friga, chat up an uncomfortable guard. Fjotli talks with Tova and Jorleif nearby.

Brunwulf is carefully watching Yrsarald, making certain that Arvid isn't being hit too hard. He's still recovering and more tolerant to pain than Grimvar, so it is easy for the boy to overdo himself. The young maid tasked with Arvid's education hovers about, offering bites of food and refreshments as needed. Mostly, though, Fina seems about ready to give a talking to the twins. 

A few minutes later, if Ulfric had any opinions of the maid being meek, they were certainly gone, for she had given a tongue-lashing just shy of the level that Jorleif's wife would go to. Friga's face was bright red and she made a quick walk to her father, whereas Nilsine awkwardly wandered over to her mother and half-heartedly greeted Jorleif with a hug. 

Jorleif, being a widower and made of gentler cloth than most, was always one of those people who enjoyed that sort of contact. Ulfric would have downright yelled if someone attempted to,  _ gods forbid _ , embrace him. 

The steward was the opposite of the jarl in a surplus of ways. He rarely raised his voice, kept composure, and similarly to Yrsarald, could talk someone's ear off. Originally, Ulfric had been hesitant to make him steward, thinking that dealing with politics might corrupt the man, but it seemed to do the opposite. 

For the fifteen years Silda was around, the two were positively trouble in circumstances like this. They excelled in social environments (unlike Ulfric and Galmar), found joy in idle chat, and were generally the perfect organizers for a gathering. Silda had usually taken the reigns of food, room planning, security, and guest lists, while Jorleif would do all the things she told him to do.

_ Jorag had been rather good at this, too.  _ Ulfric ignores that thought.

Silda had been a steward herself in all but title. She was sharp and quick and as much as it got on Ulfric's nerves, he had been utterly lost with social discretion after she had passed. He still was. Jorleif, having been tutored by the stubborn woman for hundreds of hours on end, was able to figure out how to host in her absence, though. 

Thankfully, Wuunferth walked in after about ten minutes of mingling, and not too long after, Ulfric requested everyone to take their seats. There was some fuss, being that Grimvar wanted desperately to sit next to both Arvid and his sister, but Fjotli would rather sit next to her father and the twins wanted her to sit by them instead. The court mage had silently moved and pushed Grimvar next to Arvid, and Torsten told Fjotli to stay where she was. 

Ulfric spoke before the twins could whine. "I'll assume that is resolved. Jorleif, pick from sections two through five to start."

"Section four, part a," the steward began, shuffling through papers, "requested by General Thrice-Pierced. A new charge of shipments arriving from a private shipping company with whom he has a term is to be considered. The delegation is to be without charge but will be within the hold's waters and holding port for a maximum of four days. No interference with uniform trades are foreseen. Materials of offer are iron, steel, and gold. General."

Yrsarald elaborates while Ulfric flips over a piece of parchment and scribbles down a noteworthy thought. "The captain of the company runs privately and owes me a personal debt. His resources will be awarded to the capital and used for the army, free of tax and cost. After the shipment, provided it is approved, he will be stationed as an elite naval force and operating on fog missions. Any further needs will be addressed once the resources are approved."

"Is he to replace Lonely-Gale, then?" Torsten questions. Torbjorn, interestingly, is quiet. "What is his expertise?"

"Best captain on the seas currently, and his brigade are trained individually. He's got twenty-some years under his belt and a good reputation."

"He's from Cyrodiil, then," Torbjorn mutters.

Yrsarald stares. "He is. Denounced from his family name, though, so he's more of a sailor than anything else. You should know more than myself that the seas take away what was once your home, Torbjorn. You sailed longer than me."

The ship lord shakes his head, displeased. He's no doubt working out terms, Ulfric reckons, and they won't be pleasant.

"What agreement have the two of you got?" Galmar picks up. "I don't know of any Imperial that would openly send resources like steel for no charge. To us, no less."

The general stumbles, looking rather abashed, then says, "He owes me a life debt. I couldn't convince him otherwise, and he's been spitting fire at me for not getting him involved in the war."

Grimvar blinks, blurting, "What's a life debt? I've never heard of it."

"A life debt is sworn to someone when they've assisted you enough to earn incredible respect, like, for a mercenary to save two sons of a poor family that could not afford it. It was used more in the olden days, but you put yourself completely at the whim of who you swear it to. It's settled in contract, which is burned during a short ceremony," Hillevi explains deftly, resolving the confusion written on most of the faces of the younger generation.

Elda adds, "Usually, it was done between the heads of two families of different classes. If a farmer's daughter married a jarl's son, then back in those days, the easiest choice to avoid any loss of status would be that debt. Nowadays it's a subjection for slavery, but I suppose the point would be to choose someone who wouldn't abuse it. Like General Thrice-Pierced."

Arvid raised a brow. "Are you sure?" he says playfully, and chuckles run about the table. Yrsarald, being less uptight than most, finds the humor appealing, but one must be careful on the topic of honor with Nords about. Brunwulf seems to murmur some notion of caution to his son while Friga frowns and chatters with her sister.

_ He'll grow up to be a fine man,  _ Ulfric muses.  _ Praise Mara that he was able to get along with Brunwulf and Elda. _

"I'll agree to him transporting goods, so long as he leaves quickly. A fine of seventy-five septims will be in play after three days, with an upward rate of twenty percent," Torbjorn announces, casting a lingering look to the youngest general. "I will only be so generous because of the contract. What dates will this captain be on the port?"

Yrsarald smiles widely. "Tomorrow. My thanks, Torbjorn, for your cooperation. If you require something, do let me know."

Eye-rolls and snickers run about the table, and Galmar scoffs. "Leave it up to you to do something so blunt."

"Settled?" Jorleif comments.

"Yes," Jarl Ulfric answers. "Section three, part c."

"Concerning the payment of Argonians in the docks, requested by multiple persons of the court and several citizens. Their payment is seen as far too low. Torbjorn, the starting rate for upping wages is by thirty percent."

The man scoffs, reeling back. It is only because of Tova's concerned look that he does not begin with a shout.  _ Hm. Perhaps Jorleif was wise to invite Tova.  _ "Thirty percent? You must jest. They aren't productive enough as it is, and there have been missing shipments! I'd need more guard reinforcement in the docks to ensure that they're not spending it on skooma, and even then, I'll only do twenty percent."

"Make it fifty, Shatter-Shield. Jorleif, have someone send an attachment to reinstate substance laws for the dockworkers," Ulfric states, tone sharp enough to get a rise out of the man. "Settled?"

Torbjorn glares, affronted. "I said I would do no more than twenty."

_ He's predictable, at least.  _ "Did you?" he quips, brows raised.

"Twenty, Ulfric. Don't toy with me. It's my port," the ship lord snaps. "It is none of your concern how my business runs."

The room seems to freeze with the silence in the air. Ulfric looks to Arvid, the youngest at the table, inquiring simply, "Young Arvid, what is my title?"

"Jarl Ulfric, my jarl," he responds, tossing a hesitant glance to Brunwulf who nods supportingly.

"And do you believe that Lord Shatter-Shield owns the city port?" 

"Well, n-no. You just said it was the city port, Jarl Ulfric."

"Correct, young Arvid. Taxes pay for upkeep and guards, making it a public estate. Mind, miss Nilsine, Miss Friga, your allowance is forty septims a week, yes?"

Both girls nod, glancing at each other, a little confused. Nilsine then adds confidently, "But we can ask for more if we want."

"You get paid?" Grimvar murmurs to them with disbelief, turning to look at his father with a gloomy expression.

"Don't even try," the man takes a swig of mead and ignores the boy's glare.

The jarl casts a lingering, unimpressed stare at the lord. "Fifty percent increase in wages, Shatter-Shield. Do mind your tongue when you can no longer back it with your fists. Jorleif, part a and b." 

_ Torbjorn used to be indeed fierce. Now, he's so out of touch he doesn't realize that his gut hands over his belt. Discipline is far too easily forgotten when we Nords get old. _

"Involving Hjerim and a court apprentice, requested by Wuunferth. Court wizard," Jorleif introduces seamlessly, passing over the issue to Wuunferth. Tova mutters something in harsh tones to her husband, who glowers like he's just been robbed blind.

The mage sighs. "I have the means to buy Hjerim, and I would gift it to my future apprentice. However, I am aware that Friga Shatter-Shield was of the mind to purchase it come next spring. My solution would be to designate parts of the house each party would own, and once I die, for my apprentice to take my place here. Ownership then would be a matter between both of them while I live," he explains. 

Torbjorn, as protective as he is, barks, "Apprentice? I have heard nothing of this! There will be none of your kind near my daughter, mage, and certainly not sharing a residence!"

"Come now, I am by far the more dangerous one compared to an assistant, Torbjorn. Friga?" Wuunferth prompts. "Your funds, your choice. My apprentice will mostly be afield, coordinating with troops, so she will only need a place to store all of her damned rubbish. She's no cook, though, so I'm sure you could teach her."

Ulfric straightens his back and stiffens his shoulders, trying to ease the persistent pain.  _ Talos, it's bothersome today. _

Overjoyed by a compliment of culinary skill, Friga smiles widely, "I can certainly agree to that! Your assistant isn't... bad, is she?"

"Exactly the opposite. Jarl Ulfric, would you be agreeable to meeting her in a month or so? Currently, she's getting her last run of freedom before she has to listen to me."

Ulfric goes to his first thought of an answer,  _ absolutely not _ , then abruptly changes his mind upon hearing the man's last comment. "Have you not told her that she is going to be your apprentice, Court Mage?"

Wuunferth snorts. "If I buy her a house, she will not be able to say no," at Ulfric's returning stare, he declares, "I've been searching for a suitable apprentice over decades, my jarl. I'm not going to accept some College of Winterhold novice who doesn't what it is to be a mage and in this court, of all places. I'm not settling. I will do what I must."

"Are you planning to croak, you old coot?" Galmar's eyes narrow. "I don't want a young-blood tearing up the place."

"I am not hopeful that I will continue living for two years, to be frank. I would hope you have enough trust in me that I would not pick a faulty apprentice. If I didn't like her, I wouldn't be doing this, would I?"

Yrsarald grins, seconds away from offering a suave reply or question of some kind before Ulfric states quickly, "Settled, Jorleif. Section one."

"Whiterun affairs. The Grey-Manes have offered support to this hold and city, along with the war effort. The decision is whether or not to accept their generosity, being it would likely lead them to shift to a higher status once Whiterun is taken," Jorleif reads. "Jarl Ulfric, I believe it would be best for you to begin."

"The family is honorable, but there will be catches within their ability to rule effectively and teach their own how to continue to do so once they get acclimated. At the current conditions, the earliest we would have Whiterun would be at the end of the year, which would not be enough time to correctly teach someone of the clan, likely Vignar, jarlship. Proper tutoring takes a minimum of four to six months, assuming there would be not a single day without at least two hours of teachings," the jarl explains. "Most days you have over four hours."

Grimvar makes a face and mumbles, "I thought being a jarl would be fun."

Brunwulf comments quietly, "I wish it was, lad. I reckon we'd be eating right now, but business first."

Arvid adds, "I'm hungry," and Grimvar nods vigorously in agreement.

"Did you go through the training too, Jarl Ulfric?" Fjotli asks, peeking out from behind her father. 

"I did. I completed it in four months."

"No, you did it in three," Galmar corrects. "Three months and twenty-five days."

Ulfric sends him a skeptical look, not entirely sure how the man remembers the exact date. 

Fjotli looks mildly disturbed. "I only have two hours of lessons a week and I complain," she murmurs to herself, prompting her father to snort. Nilsine and Friga talk about their own lessons, and Ulfric's state of petty annoyance increases to substantial irritation.

Jorleif gives him a warning look.  _ Fine, fine. Gentle introductions, he says. I can't snap at them yet. _

"You're no wall of steel, Fee. In fact, I would hope against it," Torsten chuckles. "I have nothing against the Grey-Manes. By all means, I'd agree with their support."

Torbjorn glowers. "I don't want Eorlund's sons here. They get too friendly."

"Avulstein isn't that bad!" Nilsine protests, then adds, "I can't live under your roof for all of my life, father!"

"And you won't, but you will not be living under his! He's not even firstborn to his clan and he's nearly a decade older than you! Don't think I don't know what happened!"

Friga murmurs to her sister, though not very discreet, "I told you that was foolish."

"At least I wasn't fooling around in the hay with the-"

Galmar stares longingly at his empty mead. Ulfric sighs while Jorleif smiles stiffly after catching a concerned look from Arvid. Yrsarald picks at the coating on the table.

"Nilsine, stop! I didn't even-"

"Yes, yes you did! And then you turned around and-"

"Well, what was I supposed to-"

"Girls, behave! I just might shut the two of you up myself," Tova rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Now isn't the time."

"I'll... mark that as settled in favor, then," the steward murmurs uncomfortably. "Section two, part a. There is a current issue with Riften's drug trafficking and we'll need to find a way to remedy it with a limited amount of resources. Anyone may take lead for this issue."

And so the council dragged on, the party covering a handful of topics as hours passed. At one especially heated point, both Yrsarald and Torbjorn were standing, loudly berating each other in hard Nordic while Tova sat in irritation. It had been her yelling that had shut the both of them up, forcing Torbjorn to sit and be quiet for a few sections until he inevitably got riled up again. The next time, it was with Brunwulf. Arvid had tugged at his adoptive father until the man had caved in, letting Torbjorn off the hook.

The council and gathering went better and yet so much worse than Ulfric had anticipated. The council had been more stable, being that the presence of children and wives made the councilmen tamer than normal. The dinner, however, was ripe with bickering from the twins, food being thrown from Grimvar (Ulfric was three seconds away from throwing a plate at him when Jorleif had scolded the boy, resulting in his father to finally notice and also lecture him), and general chaos.

But, as turbulent as the meal was, the real consequence came in the form of Ulfric's back and shoulders acting up. The ache had gotten progressively worse throughout the day, and it was certainly not aided by sparring with Galmar in the early morning hours or having to sit in a chair for an extended period of time. The jarl was constantly shifting, trying to get into a position where the pain would lessen but could find no suitable spot. The housecarl began to take notice.

The man was a pest when it came to matters like these. Yrsarald was not as demanding, being as he didn't want to spire Ulfric's ire when it could prove to cause physical pain, but he wasn't going to overlook it either.

There was a particular story Galmar often uses to frame the jarl's stubbornness, coming back from when they were in the Legion. Ulfric had marched ten leagues on a broken ankle and injured calf, choosing not to take the opportunity to rest (like most of the brigade had) and even going so far as to join the scouting party. He had been one of the three volunteers for it, and the other five were singled out by the unit for complaining too loud. 

For a month, he fought, marched, and lived with serve injuries. The healers had  _ screamed  _ at him once Galmar had reported it, and all Ulfric had done was shrugged.

That was before he'd been through the Embassy. After? Ulfric had lost all ability to realize when he needed to get something fixed, and even then, he usually refused nearly all forms of treatment. He didn't want magic, he couldn't be on bed rest for months, and he certainly wouldn't be drinking some herbal remedy. 

Galmar was aware of that and by Talos, did it make him furious. The man could argue for hours about Ulfric needing a healer, but the jarl was even more unyielding to the idea of getting treatment when it was being used as a threat. 

Yrsarald had a different approach to convincing Ulfric. One that almost worked. He would be overly calm about the situation and try to implore reason. When that failed, he was excellent at setting up elaborate tricks of guilt and was able to be patient enough to do it for weeks. Still, time after time, he had ended up fruitless.

On the other hand, Jorleif had given up on trying to convince Ulfric. Either he had to be in enough pain to cooperate or he needed a strong driving force to go. Ulfric thought that this was a good understanding of his mindset. If he was unable to walk, then fine, he would accept treatment. Anything less? Likely not.

The current pain he was experiencing was beginning to creep up to that point. Right before he settled in his study to work until the morning hours, he had a panicked thought of,  _ is my entire spine out of place?  _ that got him worried enough to go to Wuunferth. He would rather die than have to walk with a cane or wear a brace for the rest of his days.

The walk to the first wing was uncomfortable. He passed Odena on his way, who was concerned but helpful, offering a variety of things that he refused. Then, Yrsarald nearly ran into him, far too focused on a letter in his hands.

Frantic, he had shoved it into his pocket and murmured, "My jarl," before legging it to his room. His face seemed unusually red.

The rest of his walk, he wondered what had to be in that letter. Maybe a woman had written it? It had to be. The general was certainly a failure when it came to romance, but it was the only thing that could make him look like that.

Walking into the court mage's quarters was as awkward as it was humiliating. Wuunnferth turns from an enchanting table with an annoyed expression before it turns to begrudging surprise. "How bad is it, then?"

"It aches."

"Oooh," the mages drawls, "that's not good. You know what to do," the old man says, turning and closing the door to his room. All sorts of things litter the bookshelves in the filled room ( _ is that a toe? _ ), making for adequate material for Ulfric to stare at while he throws off his furs and overtunic and everything else so he doesn't just walk right out.

He lays on the extra bed in the room and warns, "If you so much as touch me, Wuunferth."

"We understand each other, Jarl Ulfric," the mage murmurs, throwing down a chair beside the bed. He takes a sharp inhale, then stands right back up. "I'm going to jab you rather aggressively with the rear of a spoon. When it comes to the point of more than you care for, hit the frame."

"I know."

"You're entire back and shoulders are bruised, by the way," the mage comments, going back to sit down. Without warning, he begins to dig the wood into the jarl's back. His hand clenches the frame, knuckles turning white. Abruptly, Wuunferth pulls back and breathes, "Oh, gods, it's-"

The spark of shock magic sprawls throughout Ulfric's back and he barely clips back a scream-- not seconds after it erupts from the middle of his back, it spreads to all of his upper body, spasming his muscles to the point where they are visibly convulsing.

Then, it stops. He lets out a ragged breath and throws a sharp curse at the mage. 

"Talos above."

"Mage, tell me you can fix this," he barks vehemently.

"I've never seen anything like it. I can temporarily stop the magic from doing that, but not for long, and not reliably. I'll need to fiddle with it more to even see where to start," he makes a noise, then says, "my jarl..."

"I'm a dead man walking. We've established this."

"So we have, but now the magic is casting itself. I'm going to have to refer to my apprentice," Wuunferth answers, then mumbles, "I would think you two would get along. Nevermind that! For treatment, I can trial potions or use magic. Magic may work better, but-"

"You know the damn answer, Wuunferth."

"Well, we'll be in here for a while then, won't we?"

At just past midnight, Ulfric found himself leaving the Temple of Talos akin to a ghost haunting the city. After an entire night of throwing up, shaking, sweating, and Wuunferth barely able to keep him from passing out, he truly felt like a wandering spirit, not exactly here nor there. 

He had tried to continue his work but found an absence of quills. Too exhausted to be annoyed, he walked to the temple and forbade any guards from tailing him. A cloak was good enough protection.

It was late summer, so the nights were still warm. In only a few months, they would drop to temperatures that could freeze livestock alive and kill unwise travelers. He thought about the coming winter often.

Because of the extra Imperial forces in Skyrim, nearly every hold had entirely plundered its stock of reserve food for harsh winters. The reserve was for times of extreme distress only, but it had been a long, long time since entire Nord cities were wiped out from the mixture of starvation and cold. Many had forgotten it happened at all.

Hoag had made  _ certain  _ Ulfric would remember, despite it being unintentional. For a month in winter, he had to survive on his own. In the wild. No cloaks, no furs, no food- only the clothes on his back and whatever he could get in thirty seconds out of the armory. It was a last-effort resort for his father to attempt to get him into line as a boy. He had been, what, thirteen? 

At the time, it had only filled him with resentment. Now, it was a harsh reminder. Nearly all without food, shelter, or clothing would not make it even a few days. He had been about an hour from death when he was allowed back into the city-- only four out of the fifty condemned had survived this fate in the city history books. Deemed fit to live by Kyne herself, those scholars had declared upon the survivors. Forgiven.

His father had not had the same opinion. Ulfric hadn't cared back then. Now, he agrees with Hoag's thoughts, perhaps more than the man himself did.  _ Jorag never failed to forgive someone, on the other hand.  _

He couldn't bear to think of what he'd read in his brother's journal after letting it sit for years. Couldn't live with himself if he thought about it too much. So, to silence it, Ulfric walked around the city. The inn was quiet on this night and the guards were much the same.

The pathways were rugged and crumbling, even worse so when he got to the Grey Quarter. It was mostly dirt. Supports were jagged and crumbling, their roofing in a similar state of ruin.

_ It has been like this since before my father was jarl, and it has only gotten worse. People only come for the war. There just isn't enough people to support sales. Everyone is barely scraping by, including Torbjorn, even if it's hard to tell. He's pulling out of his family's reserves at this point. Mine's been gone for a century. _

Ulfric pauses, staring at a cracked wooden sign. ** New Gnisis Cornerclub, established in 4E 186.  **

He turns, heading to the docks. The guards give him untrusting stares as he slips by the door, but he makes no effort to explain what he's doing. He takes to stairs to the port quickly, ignoring Wuunferth's warning of caution.

Crates are strewn about, along with nets and a handful of other things. A single Argonian shuffles them about, sorting one shipment into locations, it seems. He's not cracking them open. 

"Do you usually work this late?" Ulfric comments idly after taking his hood down. If an assassin gets him from across the river, he'll be more impressed than angry.

The fellow jumps, answering, "Uhm, no. No, I was restless. Figured I could get a head start on the morning tasks until I was tired."

"I see."

"Scouts-Many-Marshes. Who are you to be out late, stranger?"

"I'm in need of a shipment, to tell the truth. Heard there was another ship coming in tomorrow, so I assumed it would be delivered late. Thus, here I am."

"You're too big to be a thief. Shipment?"

"4523. To the jarl."

Scouts-Many-Marshes pauses. "Those need a signature from the jarl."

"They do," he answers simply.

The Argonian blinks, confused, and a guard murmurs something to the other one on job who then makes a quiet noise. They salute meekly. "Okay," he murmurs hesitantly, going off and getting a smaller crate and entering a building for a while before coming back.

"These are the papers," he says. "I don't think you can sign them, though."

The quill the Argonian brought has a store of ink in it. The quills are notorious for being short-lived, but they are good for times you can't get ink and charcoal is too messy. Ulfric signs it in scribbles, writing a bit down below it. Scouts-Many-Marshes stares at him. "Oh," he mumbles. 

"Were your wages increased yet?"

"Torbjorn said so," the fellow shrugs. "I don't think he will."

"He's under oath," Ulfric states, handing back the papers and quill. "If he does not, he will spend time in the Bloodworks for going against my order. Send a complaint if he doesn't."

"Alright. Can I... ask something?"

"I've got an hour."

"Why can we not go in the city other than for food? And Khajit can't go in at all."

The jarl raises a brow. "Do you want me to be honest, or do you want me to say what you expect so I don't ruin your thoughts of me?"

"I want the truth."

"Argonians and Khajit were bringing in skooma when the previous jarl, my father, was the leader of the hold. A fourth of the population died from it. There are not enough resources to properly search through goods that your races bring in and the Thalmor have a hit out for myself and a good number of the men in my ranks. Letting Khajit in would be a death sentence," Ulfric pauses, "may I ask a question in return?"

"Yes."

"How many of the dockworkers are hooked on skooma?"

"Only one, but another is on his way. There are only four of us. The Dunmer have about three or four. Probably more."

"I see. Well, Scouts-Many-Marshes, now that you and yours wages are high enough, I warn you that you now get taxed on them. If there are any particular issues that you have trouble with, send a letter to Steward Jorleif with the number twenty-two in the bottom left corner."

"O-okay. Why did you ask if I wanted to hear what I expected?" he asks just before Ulfric begins to walk away.

"You could plant an orchard with the rumors. I'm guessing you would be in favor of Ulfric the Bigot, so it would be rather disheartening to hear that I don't have enough consideration to be one."

The Argonian tilts his head. "You are right. I think Scouts-Many-Marshes may need to stop talking to that Ambarys. You seem better than what he speaks of you."

The jarl chuckles bitterly. "Let him talk. He's more like a Nord than he thinks. We may be quick to judge and prejudiced, but that man is in a league of his own. Of which, I am not the right person to negotiate with."

"What aren't you the right person for him to talk to? You're the jarl," he points out.

"That elf comes in with no other choice than being denied. He's already decided that's the outcome he's going to get, and I'm not going to try to convince him otherwise. A better man may have the patience to listen, but take me not for one. Good night."

The Argonian watches him go, then looks down at the signage papers. Underneath the jarl's name, in sharp but smooth writing, reads, ' _ If you happen to have any other skills than loading docks, come to the Palace of Kings in the morning hours. There are plenty of spots we need to fill in the ranks other than soldiers.' _

"Did that just happen?" the Argonian mumbles.

_ Hours later: _

"Are you serious?" Galmar yells, slamming his hands on the war table. Yrsarald scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "You didn't think to tell someone about it  _ before  _ it got to the point where you needed this extent of treatment? Oh! I'm sure it somehow didn't matter because, you know, it's not like lives depend on you or anything!"

Ulfric stares dimly. "You've got five minutes before you need to be at the docks."

"You're so damn lucky you're a jarl, Ulfric, otherwise I would be beating your arse with a spoon. You're such a shit- Talos! I can't even-"

"Galmar, we should go," Yrsarald murmurs. 

"No, Yrsa, if no one else is going to yell at him for this, I'm going to! Ulfric,  _ get _ _ over here _ !" the general thunders.

Ulfric grimaces, leaning against the door to the second wing so Galmar doesn't break it open and beat the life out of him. Odena and Fina stare at him from the platform between the two sets of stairs, looking at each other.

"Take the kitchens," Ulfric advises stiffly, then hears the loud  _ thunk!  _ of something cracking the door. His brows raise and his expression is nothing short of unimpressed when he slowly opens the door. Fina gasps.

"One more time," Galmar snarls, holding his battleaxe threateningly, "and I crack back of this axe into your head. Maybe that'll knock some sense into you, ya blithering fucking fool."

And he walks off in a fury, leaving everyone else in troubled silence. Yrsarald breathes, "You two need to show your concern in healthier ways than that."

"We're civilized enough," Ulfric responds. "Just a little bit of butting heads."

"He cracked the door, Ulfric."

The jarl gives the general a side-eye, then looks at the door. "Perhaps the door deserved it."

"I-" the man sighs. "I need to go unload the shipment," he murmurs. "Be careful, my jarl."

"Mhm."

"Odena, do we have wood filler for the door?" Fina whispers.

"Nope. Get a doorstop and we'll keep it open until nightfall. Come on, off we go."

"By Shor's  _ balls,  _ he broke the damn door!" Jorleif exclaims, walking into the room just as the maids scurry out. "I leave you alone for ten minutes, Ulfric, and this is what happens! I heard about last night, too- were you just going to not tell me about it?"

"Jorleif, I need you to save this for tomorrow. I got that shipment of quills today."

"Well, speak no further. Citizen meetings start at mid-day and we need to get that council report finalized today along with the patrol route for next week and ledgers for the shipment legalized. Any news from Kai?"

"He's got a woman."

"You think?"

"Won't shut up about her in the report, at least."

"Did he say how old she was?"

"Thirty something. I don't give a damn."

"Is she good-looking?"

Ulfric narrows his eyes. "She's a  _ mage,  _ Jorleif."

"You know, Sil was half Breton. She got me anyway."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation after I explicitly told you not to talk about this."

"Yeah, well, if you're ready to drop dead like Galmar was raving about, maybe it's the conversation we need to have," he quips. "The smithy's apprentice-"

"I'd rather hang myself."

The steward stares at him, open-mouth and wide-eyed. He shakes his head, "You don't mean that."

"You want to test it?"

"Good gods, she's not  _ that  _ bad, Ulfric!"

"Look at her damn finances. She'll slaughter my coffers, and they've already been slain."

"Wait, you-"

"Yes, I looked! I did because you wouldn't shut up about it! And she's not the one!"

"Who's the one, then?"

"Give me two months and I'll tell you."

"Right, like your perfect woman is going to conveniently pop up. It doesn't work like that."

"Or does it? Perhaps I've already found one."

"Who?  _ Odena _ ?" Jorleif mocks. "You are one of the worst liars I have ever met, Ulfric. At least try to fake it."

The jarl scowls. "Your backtalk is equally as disheartening."

The steward rolls his eyes. In a level tone, he says, "We're playing cards tomorrow night. You should join. Yrsarald's got a secret and I'm going to get it out of him."

"No."

"You just don't want to lose again."

Ulfric slams open the door to his study. "Expect me there," he snaps.

"And any plus ones are invited. Oh, wait, apologies," Jorleif snorts.

The jarl stares, lingering, then goes to do his work. 

_ I await the day I can shove those words back down his throat. Silda won't mind. I think. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment any spelling errors, sentence hiccups, or things that could be re-worked!  
> How do you feel about our new character? Ulfric's errand at the docks? Jorleif's bickering? Don't hesitate to share!
> 
> Thanks for your time, and I hoped you liked this rushed chapter!


	4. The Incidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anyone just absorb a dragon soul, by chance?"

Ylsa slipped the furs off with a yawn, rolling her neck gently as she winced. She rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times to get them adjusted to the light. Daylight filtered into the small room from two windows. If she had noticed that they were there beforehand, she certainly wouldn't have stayed in the room, but she had been a little preoccupied.

"Stop moving," comes the quiet mumble from the man next to her, half of his face pressed into the bed. "Wait until lunch to go. It'll be too cold for you."

She sighs vocally. "It's not that bad."

"You don't even have a cloak, and everyone who has one is still freezing. All you've got is bones and skin. I can get you some standard-issue ones from the barracks and send you on your way."

"I'm already running late. I should have been halfway to Whiterun by now. I have magic, too, general. It's not like I'm going to freeze to death in Last Seed."

He pushes himself up, saying cuttingly, "I've seen men twice the size of me die around this time of year. With your magic, all you'll get is an extra half-hour, which won't do a damn thing once you're in the thick of a blizzard. The second those wrists start getting chilly, mage, you're dead."

Her lips fold inward.  _ He's right. I know he's right. He knows he's right.  _ "I don't want to stay in one place longer than I have to," she mutters.

"Lass, you're in Stormcloak territory. The Thalmor don't have the experience or resistance to make it out here for more than a few days. That one at your college nearly died getting there. And if that's not who you're hiding from, then I can deal with them," his tone is significantly gentler, his arm nudging her closer to him until her back leans against his chest.

Her head falls onto his shoulder, eyes meeting his as she murmurs, "Those are dangerous words."

"I think I qualify as dangerous enough to say them."

She looks at him, lips barely peaked up. "You're very cute when you try to seem tough."

He flushes a bit but mostly keeps composure. "Don't say that," he mutters. 

"Mm, but you get so red."

"Ylsa, please," he mumbles, glancing away. "Don't be so cruel."

She chuckles. "I had my fill of that last night. You want to try it?"

"Truly?"

"To a point. You get off on insubordination, I assume."

"From you? Of course. Lay down, then."

"I don't think so, Wet-Pommel. You're not even qualified to be a general."

A few hours later, they stand in the cold. Smiling gently, face reddened from the chill, Ylsa holds the younger man into a light embrace. "Be safe, Kai. If you need me, you only must write."

He chuckles at her kiss on his cheek, returning it with one of his own. "Thank you, healer."

"Just doing my part, sweet cheeks. Now, you go find that lass that runs the shop in the city and see if you remembered what I taught you."

"Yes, ma'am," Kai grins. "Come back around sometime. Think about my offer."

"I will. Bye now."

"Be seeing you, Ylsa."

"I hope not," she flashes him a smile that doesn't seem right. It's distant and regretful (something is lurking under it, almost), but she is gone before he can confront her on it.

He sniffs, rubs his nose, and heads back to camp.

___

The Jarl of Windhelm sat with his back pressed against the stone wall of his bathroom, the coolness of it relieving some of the sparked nerves in the muscles of his shoulders. A rampant piece of skin on his lower back was still lifted in web-like patterns, the unprompted action of twisting his torso minutes before the culprit.

He breathed out, stood to his feet, and closed his eyes for a few moments as he rolled his head back. "Talos, grant me strength," he murmurs, limbs heavy. He tries to normalize himself after another flare-up. The tall man makes his way to the adjacent bedroom, looking over the somewhat small rucksack on his tightly made bed before throwing it over his better shoulder. 

The weight of it makes his body throb with tension. Distantly, he observes his room, finding nothing that he needs to bring in particular. He makes his way out of his room, axe hung on his belt and his top layer of sleeves folded up neatly and his overcoat tucked away for a colder day. Today was unreasonably hot, warranting even the most uncaring of men to express caution. Ulfric couldn't be passing out on a simple patrol, something far less harsh than other missions he'd taken. 

This time, he had a horse. A beast of a stallion. Supposedly, at least- Ulfric was going off of Galmar's word, and the man had never cared for horses after he got a tooth kicked out of him as a boy from one. Even a tame mare would seem monstrous to him.

Without paying much attention to where he was going, Ulfric made his way to the war room, eyes flittering along the walls and addressing guards as he went. He had been in these halls for a long, long time. It was unlikely he would trip from not paying attention.

Yrsarald sat idly in the war room, focused on some papers. Hearing his entrance, the general shifts his gaze up. His lips form a limited smile. "We'll wait to play cards until you're back."

"Don't," Ulfric responds, adjusting his bag. "I'll be busy."

"I see," he states after a pause, tone harder than before. An apple sits on the table he sits at, untouched. His leg bounces under the table and the room feels suffocating. 

The jarl pauses. "Stop thinking about it, Yrsarald."

Yrsarald glances up. "It was my fault in the first place," he mutters, shaking his head. "I should have been better."

"There was no way you or Captain Raxlos would have known and it's Torbjorn's own damn fault. He should have been locking up his ledgers. It was bound to happen," Ulfric answers. "You showing enough care to even try to convince me to send men to find them is plenty for him. I'm sure he thinks he has leverage over you, but he doesn't. He won't, so long as you do not allow him to."

"Raxlos said that too," the man mumbles, "and then he punched me. He's not responding to my letters."

"You have a backbone, Yrsarald. I haven't seen it in a while."

"Galmar isn't talking to me, either."

"He's of the mind that you are too easily pushed around and I'm sure he's convinced you're going to turn your back on him. Prove to him that you won't and perhaps things would resolve themselves," Ulfric says.

The Eastmarch General scowls. "Where do I even start?"

"Goodbye, Yrsarald," the jarl rolls his eyes. 

"Don't die," the man calls sharply. "You pay for my salary, you know."

"I'm aware," Ulfric replies, closing the door to the war room behind him. Ragmir stands lazily from the grand table and Tholund hisses some harsh words to him. Quickly, the jarl asserts, "I will not hear you two bicker so much as one time on this patrol. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my jarl," come the fast replies from the men as they fall in behind him. The guards open the doors to the city and Ulfric makes a quick walk to the stables, ignoring the startled stares and whispers from citizens. 

There, he meets Galmar and a group of men. The housecarl barely stops himself from flinching away from the horse he's carrying the reins of as it tries to sniff his face. Ulfric is quick to usher him away from the horse, giving him a raised brow in mockery.

"He's yours," Galmar sneers. A young Nord girl in working clothing chatters nearby to the scout from Winterhold.  _ Ralof.  _ Then, she talks to the palace guard next to him, the woman with the accent from the Rift. She'd been posted outside his door plenty of times.

The jarl pats the stallion's neck when it chuffs at him. Admittedly, the horse is just as big as Galmar described him as. Even a little bigger, perhaps.

"Jarl Ulfric?" the girl asks merrily, dipping her head when he glances at her. "I'm Cindy. I take care of the horses along with the stablemaster. This boy here is Major. He's just about eleven, and the tamest horse you could ever meet. He'll have no trouble on the patrol, so long as the reins are loose."

"Good work, Cindy," he praises, moving on to strapping his bag behind the saddle on the horse now that he's been talked at by the girl. "Talos, it's warm out," he mutters under his breath.

Galmar calls out orders for the group, merely restating what everyone has already been told. Ulfric doesn't care to listen, too focused on trying to remember if he's making up the scout's name or not.

Eventually, the housecarl runs out of things to go over and Ulfric comes to the conclusion that his name was indeed Ralof. The unit heads out without much fuss, most a little groggy from the early start. By early morning, they'll reach Kynesgrove and spend a few hours there before moving on, heading for other parts of the hold for three days before coming back to Windhelm.

It was good to be out of the Palace of Kings. Skyrim's wildlife and flora were refreshing compared to the constant mess in his city. The shipment Yrsarald had gotten turned out to be just fine, but because Torbjorn was determined to get the general's contact out of the port, he wound up getting his ledgers stolen. He blamed it fiercely on Captain Raxlos, making Yrsarald spiral into mild hysterics. 

The man had gone around moping, yelling, pleading, and begging for days. Yrsarald had a good heart, and especially so to those he liked, but he had a nasty habit of believing everything that went wrong was entirely his fault. It made him both a great and terrible general because he would go to extreme lengths to make sure things go right, but when they don't, he has a poor reaction after the fact. He can keep going in the situation just fine, but the second he's pulled out of it, he's sulking in a corner and refusing to get over it.

Granted, every ranking official has those moments, but Yrsarald in particular has a knack for breaking his own heart. He gets too attached to soldiers, and although it makes him an excellent person to keep others going, it is difficult for him to get over even a few casualties when he's alone. 

At some point, Ulfric started to numb the guilt entirely. It was eating him alive, so he refused to acknowledge it. Worked well enough for the war. For other pieces of guilt one harbors, not so much, but it's the best tactic during active combat. Galmar did similarly.

Yrsarald, despite years at sea, was never able to be as cold as he tried to seem. At first sight, Ulfric would imagine he would seem intimidating to recruits, but the second a soldier is put under his command he is asking about their family, where they grew up- all of it. He's the man everyone knows and everyone likes because it's so glaringly obvious that he genuinely wants to meet people. He's social, but in a way that goes deeper than what Jorleif does.

Yrsa makes a group of people become family even if they start out despising each other, an ability Ulfric knows is necessary in times like this. It only makes sense that Yrsarald would die three times over if it meant he would save one of his men from death, even if they were headed to Sovngarde anyway and he would be thrown to Oblivion (perish the thought).

He's terrifyingly selfless. Everyone knows. It begs one strain of thought in Ulfric's mind:  _ Yrsarald can find a woman easily. He wouldn't have a problem at all, being he's a good man and pulls down a lot of coin each year. Women go wild for both. He should be long taken by now. But he isn't. _

And Ulfric can't figure out why. So, too stubborn to let go of an unsolved question, he thinks on it the entire way to Kynesgrove. When the company arrives, he has a meager explanation of,  _ he just hasn't found the right one,  _ and leaves it at that. Because, all in all, the man would be hard to get close to. He's a general. That title in and of itself creates a hoard of problems. Yrsarald might want to wait until after the war is over with, too.

There's plenty of possibilities, but with Jorleif focusing new pressure on Ulfric to get a wife, the jarl needs to derail that needle-point prodding the steward does onto Yrsarald. If he finds a woman, Jorleif gets distracted and Ulfric gets more time to narrow down his limited options. 

At the moment, he's been scanning citizens of Dawnstar and Winterhold. Only two have hit most of the marks, though to tell the truth, they're both in their early twenties and it keeps him awake at night. 

He's coming to terms with it, but without a doubt, he'll never be comfortable thinking about a wife as young as that. What does it say about him, to pick a woman that juvenile? What would his father say? Ulfric's mother was older than his father, for Mara's sake! 

Leaving that bit of shame lie, he focuses on talking to the people of Kynesgrove as the patrol enters the small mining village. The mine is doing well, everyone is fairing just fine, and the farm is producing just enough to get by.  _ For this winter. _

The unit is skilled with idle talk and making things lively, their arrival much smoother than Ulfric had even hoped for. Because of this, he didn't have to pay much attention. Bless Talos, because his back began to flare up again. Mostly, he got to know the horse he was riding and listen to stuttering citizens. Some were level-headed, but most were not.

The party left with a list of things that were wanted from the small village and set out to find some trouble to fix. Absurdly, Ulfric had been forbidden to do any upfront fighting from the combined urging of Wuunferth, Galmar, Jorleif, and even the guard captain, who hadn't known what the argument was exactly about but seemed rather disturbed the jarl was trying to lower the patrol size.

It was only if combat got to him that he could fight. With his axe.

His solution? Ulfric took a bow and quiver from one of the guards. He had to be especially careful with it, being his back was as touchy as it was and that the bow was far too short of a draw for him. However, the second he drew an arrow from the quiver on a short water break to eat lunch, nearly everyone had protested against it in the most respectable way possible.

Except for the guard from Riften. Now, in most situations like this, bluntness would be a remarkably incorrect way to go about telling him off. Instead, it made Ulfric realize exactly what his troops thought of him.

"With all respect, you've likely never even held a bow before and I'll not be the one who gets chewed out by Stone-Fist, my jarl, when you come back without an eye. Hand it over," she quips.

His expression changes from neutrality to an even stiffer indifference. "What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid you're going to break that flimsy thing and it'll snap back and get your face, my jarl," she explains. "Ralof, can you even shoot that without breaking it?"

"I wouldn't break it," he offers. "If anything happens, Tess, blame it on Ragmir."

The guard whips around, ready to teach a rough lesson to the newer soldier before Tholund grabs his neck with his elbow and nearly suffocates him, snarling a few words Ulfric can't hear before he lets the man go.

"I can show you how to shoot it," another guard offers. The jarl's insensitivity fades to flickers of enjoyment, realizing that no one thinks him agile enough to shoot a bow.

"I can manage," he says steadily, then everyone seems to hold their breath as he nocks an arrow and draws, careful not to overdo it.

Releasing the end of the wood, it slams and breaks into a hole in a tree not far off. He glances at quiver, inspecting the contents of it. "Old arrows," he comments quietly. "Who's bow is this?"

A red-haired man raises two fingers, calling, "Mine, my jarl."

"I'll get it back to you by the end of the trip," Ulfric responds. "If I break it, you will be issued a better one."

"I like the sound of that," he nods. "Never a bad thing to make sure I'm still good with a sword."

Chatter continues until Ulfric orders them all to get their rucks back on and continues the route. This patrol's journey is barely comparable to the marches he did in the Legion, even if he's on horseback. Galmar was far too nervous to send him on a longer trip and Jorleif was upset that he even joined patrols. Jarls often get ear-twistings from their court merely suggesting they leave their hold residence, but to actively go outside the city walls for only a patrol?

Ulfric hadn't heard of any current jarl doing it other than himself. His father had never failed to do rounds at least thrice a year, and somewhere in the family archives as a boy, he read that it was a distinctly Stormcloak thing to do. No one had died from them, which was reassuring as well. Still, the fact that a jarl interacting with citizens was frowned upon seemed outrageous to him. 

In a way, it serves as a hard reminder that he lost his freedom as a man the second he accepted the title of jarl. Perhaps he is just as much of a slave as he was back in Cidhna mine, only now it's voluntary. He chose to accept the responsibility all the while knowing he was going to be locked up in the Palace of Kings for the rest of his days.

As a once fiercely independent young man, being tied down to such an extent was a harsh learning experience. He had hated it when he was new to his title. He continues to, but now he has come to terms with his lack of choice rather than brooding about it. 

Starting out, Ulfric had taken major heat from his decision to shut out the beast races. After that uproar had quieted, he tried to spend most of his time talking to citizens and fixing household problems because he didn't know how to do anything else. It made people favor him. 

After four attempts on his life, he hardened up and limited talking to the people of his hold to citizen meetings and patrols. It created an unspoken class barrier, but it's not like he could go about breaking it now. Not with Imperial influence about.

More pressingly, he's disappointed about the patrol. They won't be covering much of Eastmarch being as the main goal is to ensure the village folk are well off for winter, therefore he can't see all of his favorite places. There is a small grouping of hot spring ponds in Eastmarch that he remembered from the first trip Jorag came with him and Hoag in particular that he wanted to visit. Fond memories were made there.

Barely five, his brother was a menace and Ulfric had been put in charge of him. Through the first few days, they wrestled and bickered and did what brothers do. Nearing dusk on their fourth day of patrolling, Jorag became annoyed at Ulfric for no particular reason.

Of course, he had to remedy this irritation. The next morning, as everyone was packing up tents, Jorag had pulled Ulfric aside and convinced him he was afraid to get eaten by a bear if he stepped out of the camp but had a need to relieve himself.

Begrudgingly, the older brother rolled his eyes and agreed to follow his little brother. Instead of keeping to his word, Jorag led Ulfric to those ponds and pushed him into them, promptly fleeing back to camp.

Soaked to the bone, missing a boot that had gotten stuck in the muck, and  _ furious _ , Ulfric looked ridiculous stumbling back to camp. His father had just about suffocated from laughter. 

When they arrived back home, for the entire summer he was there, Ulfric would dump buckets of cold water onto his brother anytime he slept in and would hide his boots (mind, Jorag was never expected to be at breakfast because he never woke up early enough for it, so it happened often). Then, Jorag's resulting tardiness would spur on long lectures from tutors, Hoag, maids, and anyone that their father trusted. They'd rather he'd not show up at all and apologize for it at the next meal than be twenty minutes late.

And despite the trouble it caused for him, Jorag had thought it was  _ hilarious.  _ Unfortunately, Hoag caught it happening and put a quick stop to it. In retaliation, Ulfric used cubes of ice instead of full buckets. 

When he had asked Jorag why he kept letting him do it on the morning he was to leave for High Hrothgar, the boy had smiled but had tears in his eyes. "You always stay to talk," was his awkward response. "No one else wants to talk to me."

The expression on his face seared itself into Ulfric's mind for the rest of his days, and even if he had not actively thought of Jorag, the memory would never fail to haunt the back of his mind. It had broken his heart to see Jorag look so lonely.

Even after everything happened and their relationship deteriorated, Ulfric never forgot that moment. Nor, he assumed, did Jorag, being he kept giving chance after chance for his older brother to redeem himself. He never did.

Ulfric had plenty to be ashamed about, but not being the older brother he should have been took the table. He was a cause of his brother's death by what he did.

_ I never told Galmar and Jorleif about him, did I?  _

He shakes his head.  _ Too late now. _

Darkwater Crossing was a mining village (if you could even call it one, for it was smaller than Kynesgrove). The folk were decent and hard-working. They didn't have quite enough reserved for the winter, however, so Ulfric made plans to supplement their stores of food before snow made it hard to transport goods. He talked to the man running the place and set in plans to plant more crops next year, designating an optimal space for the added farmland. There wasn't much needed, being as they weren't picky people, so the patrol settled for the night there and listened to stories the miners told and learned about the metal they dug.

Night came peacefully. It was the following morning that would prove to be more troublesome than Ulfric could have anticipated.

Just as everything was packed up and the patrol was ready to get a move on, one of the men stopped dead in his tracks. "Ambush!" he had screamed, but it was far too late. Legionaries came thundering into view, capturing civilians and guards left and right until only Ulfric, Ralof, Tess, Tholund, and a handful of men stand freely.

_ Over thirty Imperials snuck their way into my hold. Over my borders. By the grace of Talos, my men will make it out of this alive. Arkay, they are not ready. _

"Jarl Ulfric, surrender before anyone loses their head," a female captain lolls out arrogantly. "It'd be a fine shame to see them off before the chopping block, don't you think?"

"And to what-"

A miner's throat is slashed without care from an off-handed gesture the woman makes. Not a second later, Ulfric's axe slams into the ground. The thud of weapons dropping echoes, and a woman whimpers nearby.  _ You've cast your cards, woman, killing a civilian to gain the upper hand.  _

She titters. "He's smarter than he looks. Round them up, boys! Jarl, come over here. I've got a pretty gag for you, don't I."

_ Death is a kindness to the likes of you, and I will deliver it all the same.  _ Wrists grabbed by some low-level soldier, Ulfric is pushed to the captain. Her smile is wide. "Don't mind the tugging. It's-"

Gripping one of the soldier's wrists behind him, the rebellion leader snaps it, causing the young man to let out a shriek. In the confusion, he grabs ahold of the woman and locks her neck into his elbow. She's is far too small to do much of anything. She struggles, face turning pale.

"If a single one of you moves, she's dead. Ragmir," the jarl rumbles, face carved into forced composure. The soldier moves quicker than a fox. 

The legionnaire that killed the miner lies dead and spat on, and the captain's neck is easy to break. No Imperial moves to retaliate, and it's not hard to reason why. Ulfric mockingly raises his hands in surrender, stepping away from the body. 

The second in command, now first, calls out, "Shit. Remove their weapons and leave them here. Make sure they are tied to the carts."

And the soldiers do as told, silently binding men and women with tight rope and leading them to carts. No one speaks. Ulfric sits on the cart, bound and gagged. Swathed in fury, it is hard to resist the urge to struggle against the rope around his wrists. He forces himself to calm the second his heart rate spikes after a memory begins to surface.  _ Not now. Not ever again. _

He glances up. Ralof's lips are set in an unsettling scowl as the carts begin to move. He is not one for hatred, Ulfric can tell, but the look of wrath is always alarming on a contrarily good man. "Fucking monsters," he snarls. 

Tess kicks his leg. "None of that," she commands, reddish-brown hair flipping as she looks to him. "Keep a clear head, Ralof."

He seethes. "That man had a child, Tess! What, do you want me to be-"

Her words are harsh. "We still have to get out of this, kid. Save it for later."

About a half-hour later, the soldier passed out. Ulfric remembers that he had taken one of the night posts, leading to missing a few hours of sleep. Even if he hadn't, Ralof is at the age where he could likely sleep at any period of the day. Not only that, he ate like he's been starved his whole life and has nothing to show for it.

The wonders of youth.

Two days later, in the early afternoon, Ulfric Stormcloak leads a group of all who have survived the Helgen carnage (one of which, the man who had given Ulfric the bow, lays beside the chopping block). The birds are silent in trees. Very few wildlife scutters about, odd being that most animals are searching desperately for winter homes. A breeze drifts by, carrying the scent of something vaguely burnt.

"We can't go to Riverwood," Tholund's voice echoes, along with the footsteps of the group. His face is covered in grime, his uniform is on its last threads, and his treasured sword long lost in Darkwater Crossing. "They'll find us in a day, maybe less."

"We can't spend more time traveling, now, can we?" Ralof questions, the guard from the Rift leaning against him with a currently broken leg. "I told you, I have relatives at Riverwood. I don't know how my sister can stand living in the shadow of that barrow, but she lives there all the same."

The rebellion leader glances behind him as he takes up the rear of the unit. He scans the sky, promptly ushering Ralof to him. He pauses, giving the woman leaning on him a break and subsequently moving to the back of the formation. Ulfric asks a few questions, of which the young man answers. 

Roughly, the jarl orders, "We go to the barrow. Ralof, Ragmir, you two are staying behind with me so we can get supplies. Everyone else, head to the barrow. Do not approach until we return. Bandits are likely. Tholund, you'll be leading the unit once we split off. Whatever you do, don't get lost and go on the Whiterun trail. Clear?"

"Crystal," the man nods firmly.

Ragmir sniffs. "How in Oblivion are we going to get supplies if we don't have coin?"

_ Take me not for a criminal, but a man does not need coin once he's dead.  _ Ulfric responds, slipping a hand into the pocket of his trousers, "We do."

"Wait, we do?" Ralof murmurs, brows furrowing. "From where?"

Tess laughs hoarsely. "Don't ask questions, lad. If you have it, you have it."

The group continues to chat quietly. When they reach Riverwood, people stare in mild horror. A drunk at the inn steps remarks with wide eyes, "You folk look  _ rough. _ "

Ragmir, as Ulfric had intended him to, takes lead and sends farewell to the main group before following Ralof as he goes to the wood mill. A man leaning by it, previously watching as a log gets cut, looks at the soldier with concern. "Ralof, lad? By the gods, what happened?"

He swallows. "Where is Gerdur? I'd rather not say the story twice."

"This way," he says. "Who are your comrades?"

Ralof's gaze flickers to Ulfric, who shakes his head. Stiffly, he says, "Ragmir and... uh, I don't know him."

The guard scoffs, adding loudly, "He's slow. Say good morning."

Ulfric says nothing, clenching his teeth so he doesn't break his new cover.  _ Could have put it a little nicer, couldn't you, Ragmir?  _ The man repeats, "Say good mornin', ya dimwit."

"It's not even morning," the jarl responds pointedly. The lumberjack sends a look between the three, noticing the tension.

Ralof forces a weak smile as they approach a woman talking to a young boy. "Gerdur," he calls, and both hers and the boy's eyes snap to him. The boy gasps.

"Uncle Ralof! How many Imperials did you kill at that battle? Did you-"

"Frodnar, quiet. Ralof, what has happened? Are you- are any of you hurt? Are you safe here?"

The brother catches the nephew in a hug, picking him up with a grunt. The boy is just about Arvid's age, Ulfric reckons. "Missed you, little rascal. None of us are hurt, but we have a few in our unit that are in tough shape," he sets the boy down, saying, "go watch the south road and run back if you see Imperials. That's your mission."

"Yes, sir!" he thumps his chest in a poorly done salute and runs off.  _ Nice touch, kid. _

"We got caught in an ambush in Eastmarch," Ralof begins. "Got sent to the chopping block in Helgen. Next thing we know, after we get off the carts, a fire-breathing dragon is destroying the city."

Gerdur looks mighty concerned, as she should be. "A dragon? By the nine. We heard that Jarl Ulfric got captured in that ambush, too. Is he alright?"

Ralof freezes up, not knowing if should keep the cover or drop it, and before Ragmir can say something stupid, Ulfric states firmly, "Don't worry about it."

Ragmir adds, "He's fine."

The lumberjack is starting to get suspicious as Gerdur offers, "I have some healing supplies I can give you. I can talk to Lucan to get more."

Ralof nods. "Thank you, sister. I don't know where I'd be without you."

She rolls her eyes. "Dead in the river, probably. Hod, show them to the house and get them some food. I'll not have them be staying at the inn."

_ Her husband is going to kick me out.  _ Not seconds after he thinks it and Gerdur hustles off. The man looks at his brother in law with sharpness. "Who are these people?"

"I told you, Hod. Comrades."

"They're not in a standard uniform. At all, Ralof. And you're a bad liar."

"Uhm," the soldier glances at Ragmir and hisses, "isn't this your job?"

Ragmir sniffs, looks at Ulfric, and says, "I don't give the orders."

The jarl shakes his head, expression showing weariness. "This does not leave your mouth to even your wife until this war has ended, understand? I'm not here to put your family in the crossfire. Plenty have already been lost in Helgen as it were because the Empire wanted my head."

The shorter man leans in, head tilted behind him to make sure no one else is around. His eyes shift back. "Are you Jarl Ulfric?"

"Extend none of your coin to me because of it," the leader murmurs, handing a pouch of septims to the man. "Keep your word about you and if you and yours get targeted, come to Windhelm."

The man intakes a breath sharply, saying quietly, "I'm not going to take it. I'm a man of word, but I'll not take it."

Ulfric pauses _ ,  _ testing him. He relents. "Fair enough," he turns to Ralof. "You have old clothing here, don't you?"

The soldier reels in confusion but nods confidently. "Aye, plenty."

"Hod, you and your wife need to write a letter to Balgruuf. Inform him of Helgen's destruction, a need for guards for the town, and Imperials likely to be crawling into the border of Whiterun. Ralof, after we clear out what we need to from the barrow, get out of uniform, take the letter to the jarl's court, and give the coin to Kodlak Whitemane in Jorrvaskr. Tell him it's for Sofie. After that, meet the patrol at the Whiterun camp. If you're behind us, head for Windhelm."

The young man nods. "Can I recruit on the way?"

Ulfric gives him a cold look. "Do not get yourself killed."

"We're looking for mages, right?"

"Anyone that seems capable," the jarl advises. "Leave the mages to the trained recruiters, lad."

The soldier clicks his tongue. "Hod, does Frodmar still try to suffocate folk in their sleep, or has he gotten out of that phase?"

The father chuckles, not entirely genuine. "You'll have to find that one out for yourself, son. Gerdur told him off, but he's starting to ignore her. That boy is going to get himself beat."

As the men start to walk to the main path running through the town, Ralof murmurs, "She's good at that."

Hod nods sharply. "Woman nearly broke my jaw."

"You let her?" Ragmir scowls. "Why?"

"I'm not going to get bloodied by her brother, too. Been there and done that. That's a level of dull that I am not going to stoop to," the lumberjack mutters. Ralof sends him an icy look.

"You'd best watch yourself. I can still kick you out of the family."

Hod rolls his eyes. "You know Gerdur would do it first."

Bleak Falls Barrow, as Ralof had called it, housed a group of seven bandits. Cautiously, able fighters of the patrol cleared them and set up a resting spot in the entrance room, the bodies that were left being dragged out and tossed over the mountainside.

After that, the unit was mostly at ease. Healing potions were given to those who needed them and food was passed out. Everyone was back at peak performance, though no one could rest easily. Not after Helgen.

Tholund, who had gotten most of the bandits himself, remarked again, "I still think there are a few more scoundrels in there," he murmurs. "We heard someone yelling."

A soldier adds, "Sounded like they were panicked."

"I'd be up for more skull-bashing," Ragmir airs confidently. "I've never been in one of these barrows before."

Ralof rubs the back of his neck. "The dead tend to wander. At least, that's what I've heard from adventurers that have tried to loot this place. Angry spirits bring no good to anyone."

The Riften guard frowns, leaned against a stone pillar. The fire dimly casts shadows across her face. "Wouldn't they be glad to be put to rest? If they're awakened, they've not gone to Sovngarde. They're still stuck under the thumbs of the magic from dragon priests of old."

Silence hands in the air. Jarl Ulfric, who had been expressly silent since the bandits had been dealt with, sighs. He lost his heavy coat that he rarely was seen without and it put him on edge. Without the chainmail that was on it, he was vulnerable. Still, despite his nerves and the recent hour of magic sparking in his back, he calls, "All in favor of delving into the barrow, say aye."

A chorus of agreements rang about the room, echoing.  _ That would be the majority of the unit, unfortunately.  _ "All not in favor, say aye."

Stillness. He cracks his knuckles and announces, "Anyone skilled with traps? There will be plenty."

A young Breton woman beams, no older than twenty. "I am! My da and I used to go into barrows to see if we could find any ore. I've nearly killed myself with half of 'em."

"Well, I would hope you would avoid that today. Ragmir, keep an eye out up front with- pardon, your name?"

"Kiri," she says proudly.

"Kiri. Ragmir, take lead with Kiri. Announce any traps you find so no one triggers them, but ensure there are no threats first. We take this slow and quiet."

"Aye, my lord."

Tess comments to a few archers, "Keep your bows at the ready. If you see an undead with a weapon, shoot it. Better to be safe than dead, yeah?"

Tholund looks at Ulfric, eyes narrowed. He murmurs, "You don't have armor."

"What was that?" the Nord glances at him.  _ Say it. Go on. Tell me I can't do it. I dare you. _

"Don't get killed," the guard mutters, giving a cold side-eye. 

_ That's what I thought. I'm not as cowardly as you would like me to be.  _ "I won't," he responds stiffly. "Ragmir, go."

And the group shuffles out of the camp, going deeper into the caves. The air is thick and musty, stained with the odor of death. Several minutes pass before they reach the end of the area they had cleared- a room with three stones on twisting bases and carvings engraved onto them. 

The solution is apparent, and a few men have to force the stones to face the right way before Ragmir pulls the rusted lever. It draws the attention of the three soldiers who had been searching a few shelves on a loft in the room. They come racing down to watch the engraved metal door raise. 

Ragmir makes a gesture, signaling everyone to get back in place. Kiri clears the next room easily, and Tess picks the lock of a chest that sits in it. In it lies a quiver of unuseable arrows, a ring, and three gems. She glances around, then says quietly, "Whoever gets the most kills gets these."

A loud, shrill squeak echoes from an area that likely comes from a wooden staircase, spiraled. Tholund groans. "Skeevers. Bows at the ready," and makes a few chittering sounds to lure the creatures. The front-liners clear so they don't block the view of the archers or get shot. Ulfric lingers at the back of the room with a black-haired man in his thirties, who has made a few witty comments here and there. Agreeable enough.

With the first oversized rodent makes it's way up the stairs, it's shot dead in the eye by one of the bowmen. The next two are taken care of easily. Then, four come, and all that is left is their bodies. Ragmir carefully descends the staircase, Tholund following to ensure that the wood still holds. It does.

The lower level is filled with cobwebs and skeever scat, creating an unfavorable smell that coats the air. Kiri is quick to toe her way out, gagging. Some mild curses leave mouths, but the group continues onward.

A lone man's cry of help can be heard as they cautiously continue deeper into the barrow. He screams and cries and moans, though is seemingly healthy enough to throw up a fuss. When they finally reach the man's location, they're greeted with a spider den. Tess splits off to fiddle with a chest on a pile of rubble from a collapsed tunnel and quickly shuts it, face twisted in disgust while one of the smaller men peaks into the next room, getting a view of where the man inside is and where the spider is.

"One of the bandits," Tholund murmurs. Ragmir nods.

"Fool tried to run off to get the spoils and didn't think about dangers."

"Probably," Kiri agrees. "Watch out for that grate. Sometimes they open."

Ralof pipes up, "Avoid any venom, friends. We have more potions but that doesn't mean we want to spend them on you," he glances out the archway next to the other scout, then breathes, "Shor's stones, what is that thing?"

"A big spider," the other man answers dimly. "It's wounded though. There's blood everywhere. We can get enough arrows in it to kill it before it wakes, or we can try our luck with steel."

"Shoot it and be ready to charge if that doesn't finish it off," Ulfric orders, cutting off anything Ragmir would have said. The archers move to the front, coordinate a volley, and fire. A loud  _ thump  _ sounds as the beast falls from its nest in the ceiling of the room. The lad entrapped by webs screeches, pleading loudly for his life.

Ragmir slides into the room and cracks the spider's head off with a greatsword, cringing in disgust at the stench of rotting bodies. He looks at the bandit as he attempts to order him around and barks, "You flap your jaw one more time and I break it, bandit."

The elf clips his mouth shut so hard his teeth click. The group filters into the room, taking long looks at the huge spider. Some of the more reckless guards prod at it while Ragmir, Tholund, and the black-haired man that had been beside Ulfric rip the bandit down from the webbing he was in. Within moments of gaining his footing, he tries to make a bolt for it, getting slammed down to the ground by Tholund. 

In the awkwardness of the angle and the weight of the guard, his arm breaks, gaining the attention of the entire patrol with the elf's curdling outcry. Tholund snaps his neck violently, rolling off of the bandit and muttering a prayer to Talos.

Ragmir helps him up with a hand. "You all right, brother?"

"He's got something in his pocket," the blond answers, ignoring the question. He brushes off his uniform and adds in a mutter, "I hope that scream didn't wake anything up."

Kiri agrees aggressively, biting her lip.  _ She's very passionate with her movements and expressions. Is that a Breton thing?  _ As she watches the other guard, she inhales a breath and says excitedly, "That's a barrow claw! I've never seen one before."

Ulfric, between the spider and the doorway now, comments, "I'm not having anyone get killed to get to the door for it," he warns, having been taught extensively on Nordic history as a boy. "We may have to leave it behind if we end up withdrawing."

_ Wasn't there someone in Riverwood who had lost a golden claw?  _ The lass falls a little but still is thrilled to show it off to the rest of the party once Ragmir hands it to her. Tholund grimaces. "My jarl, I don't want to put you in this situation."

"It is far too late for that, Tholund," Ulfric affirms. He adds after a few tense moments, "I'm in the back lines either way."

"Yes, and that leaves you covering if any of us calls a retreat," Ragmir states pointedly, glancing up from the body he searches.

The rebellion leader rolls his eyes. "I'll head to the middle lines if it happens. Now, let us move. I'm as fond of spiders as the next man."

Ragmir snorts and stands. He walks back to the main room and escorts everyone back in formation and Ulfric falls into the rear, watching carefully as the unit moves forward. The next room is burial offerings, which no one plunders out of respect for the dead, and Kiri informs them that they are likely draugr ahead. 

Ulfric has to give a sharp look to Tess, who slides the top off of one of the urns and promptly replaces it after his silent warning. 

Kiri was correct. The ensuing chamber is filled with burial walls, a trap that she points out and ensures everyone can see the activator for it. Three draugr that are eventually deduced from appearance and shot. After that, in the next hallway, one of the undead takes them by surprise.

Blue eyes snapping open, the draugr makes a reach for Kiri from its low position. The black-haired man that Ulfric had been tailing with before slams a dagger into its skull, and it falls limp. "One ahead, to the right, Laro," he says quietly.

The archer being called, a short Bosmer, creeps up to the front and aims, sending a cracking arrow to the undead. A growling noise follows, and Ragmir curses and tells the archers to stay back as the warriors go down the incline that leads to the next chamber and slay the draugr that had awoken. They are killed without much excitement.

Tess happily finds another chest in rubble in the room and pillages it while the rest of the party stares at the swinging axes blocking the path to the next hallway.

Kiri, small, short, petite Kiri, goes flat on her stomach without warning and pushes herself under the swinging blades without fear. Ralof stares in complete horror as she does so, whereas the leaders of the unit keep still. She gets by the axes unscathed and stands to pull a chain, making the axes come to a stop and hang in the middle of the short hallway.

"Those things are rusty, be careful," she advises, waving the other Stormcloaks in. "Ralof, don't look like that, I'm fine!"

"I thought you were dead, Kiri!" he exclaims in a soft hiss. Tess returns and the jarl sends her a wayward look.

"Do I not pay enough?" he questions while the murmur of the company members speaking echoes.

She snorts. "You pay fine. I'm not turning down free coin, though. If it ain't an offering, it's might as well be mine. I'm from Riften, you know. That's our motto. Rotten, but only just so. Been doing this since I was ten."

He rolls his eyes. "I would have been struck with the hilt of a battleaxe."

"You Windhelm folk are so uptight. All about tradition and teachings- where's your fun? When'd you get to be a kid?"

"We found ways," he assures, gesturing for her to go forward and cross the stopped battleaxes. He follows. 

The next few hallways hold a few more draugr, but nothing significant. Then, they enter a less carved room where a single draugr pops out of a coffin, scaring a few of the guards out of their wits. Tess finds another chest to plunder and ends up giving the old but usable gauntlets in it to Laro. 

Following that, everyone squeezes through a tight stream canal, opening up to a large cavern. A few glowing mushrooms grow on the stone and Kiri excitedly spots a vein of ore. Tess (and Ralof, now) go to the chest ahead and the woman picks it open with a lockpick. She abruptly shuts it and seems to encourage Ralof to try.

After breaking three lockpicks, he gives up and watches her do it again. She shares the spoils, offering a silver ring in it, and he begrudgingly accepts. Then, she focuses on something below the cliff she's near, waving Laro over. He draws his bow, shoots, and a loud clatter is heard.

Ragmir trudges forward, criticizes them for not alerting him before acting, and the group continues. The next room is large and open and contains a few more walking draugr, but by the time Ulfric enters, it's been cleared out. Kiri has to slip beneath another set of swinging axes. Despite the anxiousness of the men and women watching her do as such, she seems to enjoy being the one who can clear the obstacle.

After that following room, the next holds the entrance to the door that the claw corresponds to, guarded by a single draugr. Ragmir is the one to take the undead down, shoulder-slamming the next door open recklessly after multiple tries of the handles.

In it contained a hall of stories, the old Atmoran gods carved into the walls. The jarl turned his attention to them more so than Kiri getting the chamber door open. The symbols on the claw matched the rings of the door, so it wasn't particularly difficult to figure out.

He can't tell what carvings correlate to specific gods, but it's interesting to see them. The stone is smooth and must have been carefully chiseled and worn to be as such. How such an incredible skill was lost to time, he could not begin to fathom.

Ulfric is brought out of his focus when the unit begins to move again, this time into a much more open cavern. Around a raised platform, a large wall is located, indented with the words of the dragon language. He doesn't remember the structure of the tongue other than for the Voice, unfortunately, so it's more of something to marvel at than anything he could decipher.

More draugr pop out of coffins, one, in particular, giving the unit a hard time. Feeling bored, Ulfric joins the fight, clearing out two of the undead himself with quick swings of his axe. After that, the room is silent as everyone takes a chance to recover their stamina.

Ralof and Laro inspect the word wall curiously, the Nord having never seen one in person and the Bosmer not knowing what it was. Tess loots the place as respectfully as she can, finding an odd tablet while Kiri runs off to scout the end passageway. When she comes back, Ragmir orders everyone to turn around and head out the way they came. 

With the traps disabled and the undead laid to rest, the company is loud and boisterous, happily inspecting things further as they head back to the upper parts of the barrow. After a few hours of resting and planning, Ragmir, Tholund, and Ulfric produce a plan to get the men to the Whiterun camp safely.

The men will decide if they want to go individually or with a group, no more than four. After deciding that, they'll have to abandon their blues and tuck them away into bags gotten from the bandits, the Riverwood trader, and some crafty methods of tying furs. Then, they follow the trail to the camp and reunite with the unit.

Save for Ralof, who now will have to carry along that tablet they found along with the letter to the Whiterun jarl and the coin for Sofie. 

The patrol sleeps for the rest of the night, though restlessly, and sends out the first group to the camp at dawn with Ralof, who parts with them less than half-way through the journey. After that, at mid-day, three more soldiers go, including the Bosmer and the black-haired man. A few are sent alone, and a pair is sent in the evening.

Ulfric, Ragmir, and Tholund are the last to leave, just before midnight. They reach the camp within four hours of easy marching, though Ulfric's back spikes continuously through it. When they are dished food, a loud, thundering voice comes tumbling over the plains, making Ulfric wince.

_ Arngeir, calling for a Dragonborn. Just what I needed to end off the day. _

The camp is silent, then Ragmir yells, "Anyone just absorb a dragon soul, by chance?"

"I wish!" Tholund chortles back.

Three hours of riding away, a dragon lies dead. The Western Tower of Whiterun lay in ruins, destroyed. The moons shine bright in the sky, and torchlight flickers in the hands of the men and women around the young man.

Ralof swallows, looking at the Whiterun guards around him. "Listen to me. I'm no such thing. I'm serious. If it was, I would know," he tries to affirm, but his words are overthrown by the loud cheering that erupts. He gets slapped on the back more times than he can count and praised for being something he is not. 

Panicked and unable to tell them the truth, (the truth, that he was no legend and that he felt no different from yesterday or even an hour ago) he is led back to Dragonsreach with boisterous laughter surrounding him. Ralof gives up trying to convince them, instead meekly nodding and stiffly smiling and trying to avoid the many questions they have. He is no longer making active decisions, only going along with the crowd. Upon entering the hall of the upperclassmen of Whiterun Hold, the jarl and his council stand waiting, anxious for news of the aftermath.

Irileth, the dark elf that had led the guards and the housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf airs the report of victory, along with a cautious notion of Ralof's apparent new title.  _ Dragonborn. _ Everyone in the room seems to both tense and lighten, Hrongar taking the most liking to Ralof as Balgruuf's younger brother and advisor where the steward questions him. 

Ralof thinks to himself,  _ what would Galmar want me to do?  _ and so, he clenches his mouth shut. After a few minutes of back and forth conversations in the court, Jarl Balgruuf says abruptly, "Ralof, lad, I would have never thought I could award the title of thane to a man I have known less than a day, but look where we stand. You have done a great service for this hold, Dragonborn. By my right as Jarl, I name you esteemed Thane of Whiterun."

The soldier freezes, eyes going wide and his composure completely forgone as he stammers, "My jarl, truly, I- I am honored, but surely there is someone more worthy of the title!"

"More worthy than the hero of legend? A killer of dragons?" the older man raises his brows. "I think not. Come tomorrow morn, I'll have a weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office and armor to suit. I assign you the best warrior I have seen as your housecarl, trained in the halls of Jorrvaskr. Lydia."

A dark-haired, lean woman in steel armor makes her way through the crowd of guards only to dip her head before him. "My thane," she says.

_ Make it stop. Make it stop, please. Gods above, I am no liar. _ _ I am not deserving of this.  _ "There's a home available in the city if you wished to buy it, as well," the jarl states smoothly. "For now, I'll let you get rest. Come for the morning's breakfast and you may leave from there. You'll be quite busy, I assume."

Stunned, the young man can only nod. "I'll take my leave, then," he declares and walks out of Dragonsreach as fast as respectfully possible, the woman trailing behind him.

She observes him, keeping pace without much effort. "Calm, my thane," she offers, "you'll trip if you keep taking the stairs so fast."

"My name is Ralof, please, call me by it," he answers hastily. "You don't have to follow me, either. Truly. This is all a fucking mess and- and I don't know what I'm going to do. I mean, I know where I'm headed to after tomorrow morning but-" he shakes his head, making a frustrated noise. "It's a shitshow. First, there was Helgen, and then next thing I know I'm being sent to kill a dragon."

Lydia's eyes are steady and sure. "You'll sort it out after a good night of sleep. Come, let us go to the inn."

"Right, uh, right," he swallows. "Are you sure you don't want to go back to Dragonsreach? They probably have better beds there."

She stares at him, incredulous. "You are my thane. I'm sworn to your side, to protect and serve. I do not care where I sleep, if at all, only that you continue living. I'm not leaving. Especially not with the wenches that frequent the Bannered Mare. You'll get eaten alive."

He sends her a thoughtful look as he continues down the many sets of stone stairs from the jarl's residence.  _ Do I look that good? I thought Gerdur was always just teasing me. No, no, get out of your head, man. She's joking. _ _ Just a serious person. Like Galmar.  _

His stomach flips as he realizes,  _ she's going to follow me to the camp. How can I lose her? If I dismiss her, will she have no choice but to stay? Can I even dismiss her? _

In his distracted state, the soldier runs right into a woman as he and Lydia reach the marketplace.

Ralof recoils, yelping, "Talos! I'm sorry, lass, I nearly ran you over. Here, let me help you up."

Her hand is smooth and grips his firmly. She stumbles onto her feet with a gentle laugh, while Lydia behind him glowers. "We are both going a little fast, aren't we," the brunette says, forcing a polite smile. She's noticeably taller than him, but she's quite slender.

"Yeah, yeah, uh," he swallows, wiping his hands on his plain clothing. He gestures to what she wears awkwardly, her worn clothing a mix between traveler's gear and magewear. "You a mage?"

"I am, in fact. Don't go throwing rocks."

He shakes his head quickly, saying quietly for the housecarl not to overhear, "I only heard the Stormcloaks were recruiting mages. Be good to even out the ranks or something, right? They get a lot of slander, but I don't reckon they're too bad."

She tilts her head, stuffing her shaking hands into her pockets. "Interesting thought. Curious, though- you're not the first to tell me about that."

"Well, back your bags, lass," he grins, gathering all the charm he can muster. "The gods are giving you a sign. Who are you to refuse?"

She nods. "Fair enough. I'm Ylsa. I'll... be seeing you?"

"Ralof. Safe travels, then."

Unheard by either of them, the dark-haired warrior mutters out a curse, looking entirely annoyed before masking it with indifference and leading the new thane of Whiterun to the nearby in as the other woman scutters off.

_ Good gods,  _ the mage inwardly breathes, rushing up the steps and trying not to trip in the darkness.  _ This day needs to be over already. _

She enters Jorrvaskr barely able to shut the door without the hinges on it squealing. The floorboards creak under her feet. Silent, she heads to the set of stairs that lead to the lower level of the hall of the Companions, giving a stiff nod to the old woman that tends them as she does. 

The musty smell that one would expect to come from the living quarters is masked by candles and bundles of dried flowers. The main room supports a dining space, leading to a room Ylsa hasn't ever been in, and then a hallway. All the rooms adjacent to that hallway are members of the circle, and, more discreetly, werewolves. 

The lights flicker when she knocks on the door to the Harbinger's rooms, her nervousness spreading to the area around her more than she would verbally admit. 

The door opens. A tall, white-haired, and bearded man stands before her in day clothing. His lips turn upwards in a gentle smile, but the darkness under his eyes stay all the same.  _ Werewolves have never slept well, I suppose _ . "I did not expect you. Come in, midnight wanderer. Tell me about your troubles."

She enters, dropping her bag at the door after she closes it. In a heap, she throws off her cloak. "Kodlak, I'm sorry for not sending word first. I-"

He waves her off, sitting in a chair next to a small, round table. "Sit, young one. To see you at all is a blessing."

She pulls out the chair and sits on the end of it. Any notion of composure is wiped away with his all-knowing gaze. Her hands shake and she lets out a long breath. He's never seen her this scattered and visibly upset. "I- I don't even know where to start," she breathes, eyes abruptly watering.

"Tell me the worst news first, and build up to the better things. I can piece out the story," Kodlak says comfortingly. "What happened?"

"I was on my way here, I don't know, barely an hour ago. I was passing over the plains. There- there was..."

"Ylsa, we can wait until you're settled."

She shakes her head, presses the heel of her palms against her eyes, and mutters, "No. No, Kodlak. I was passing over the plains, near Rorikstead, right? And there was this... this roar. I've never heard anything like it before. It filled the entire valley. Then, not seconds after, there was this  _ thing  _ flying closer. I think it came from somewhere near here, or by the mountains. At first, I thought it was some sort of bird, but it got closer. Kodlak, the thing was the size of a house and as black as night."

His attention is unwavering. "That wasn't the worst part, was it?"

She swallows, overwhelmed and stressed. "There's one of those ancient burial mounds near Rorikstead, you know? It went there and I- I saw it. It roared. I don't want to say what it was. The burial mound, though, started to move. And bones the size of mammoths started crawling up."

The mage makes a breathless whimper, a sound of terror that no man or woman should ever be so afraid to make, and primarily not Ylsa. She was hard and worn- she'd seen things much worse than death. It was extremely concerning. "It regenerated it's body back or something. The black one- it was bigger- left. And... and the one that was in the mound went straight for me. It was probably only three fourths the size of the other one, but it had teeth as long as my calf."

Kodlak murmurs, "Ylsa. Stay with me."

She nods, chin contorting as she tries not to sob. "I killed it. I don't know how I did it, I don't remember it, but I did."

"A berserker's fog. Few can slip into it, but I'm not surprised that you did," the old man says quietly.

"It disintegrated, right? I can show you, here-" she breathes, hands alight with magic as she recreates the effect in the air. Small wisps of color float around, slowly morphing into long strands. "Like that. And then," she made a gesture with her hand, the strands flowing back to her. "It went  _ into  _ me. And- and I could hear its voice. The... the dragon. I kept walking and then I used magic to get here because... I..."

Silence settles for a full minute before the harbinger speaks. "When have you last eaten?" he asks mirthfully. "I know you love to skip meals."

She shakes her head. "I- I don't know. Maybe when I was in Winterhold, but I can't remember."

"It's well past time for a meal, then. Follow me," he says, leaving no room for argument. He opens the door to the living space. She follows him like a disheartened child, fiddling with her fingers with her strong but boney shoulders slumped in a manner that does not fit her.

He glances at her, then pauses, eyes glazing over momentarily. "One moment," he says, then splits off into the hall to his left. He opens a door, Ylsa distantly following. 

A young girl jumps from her bed, terrified, and rushes to hug the old man. He kneels to return the embrace, softly soothing her tears. The callings of the Greybeards not a half-hour ago had frightened her. He ushers her back into her bed, giving her the stuffed toy she had picked out just this day after coin had been dropped off for her. Calmed, she nestles back into her blankets and he leaves her room door cracked open for light to filter in.

The mage regards him admiringly as they continue walking to the main floor. "If only there were more folk with a heart like yours, Harbinger."

He shakes his head. "I can do very little for very few, Ylsa. You are the one to be praised for all you have done for so many. If only you could share the same compassion to yourself."

"It would take years to sort through all of my problems, Kodlak," she chuckles, though, underneath her smile, a woman is suffering under the weight of her own pressure. "I'd rather solve others' messes."

"Sit," he says after they reach the mead hall. "We only have bread, meat, and fruits, but something is better than nothing with you, girl."

From where she does not know, but the man procures a plate stacked with as much food as he could pack onto it, along with a pastry he found. She eats a fifth of it before feeling sick. Unyielding, the old man wraps the rest of it up for her to eat on her journeys and sits back down beside her.

She inspects the tankard he filled for her, taking a tentative sip before making a scrunched expression. "This is broth," she mutters.

He gives her the stare only a disapproving elder can muster. "It was that or milk, girl, and gods know how well you'd take that slight. Drink it."

Scowling, she chugs the heavy liquid, quickly becoming more familiar with just how full she was. "I can't finish it," she murmurs, looking down at a mostly full mug.

"We have all night," he stares unwaveringly. "Where do you plan to go next?"

"Windhelm, I think," she answers, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes flicker around, still red from her previous panic.

Kodlak tilts his head back. "What for?"

"The court mage offered me a permanent position in the court," she says, rubbing her hand over her neck. "I thought I'd at least decline in person."

"What made you consider it in the first place?" the old man inquires, his sharpness unnerving.

She swallows. "He had some urgent request. Some mysterious ailment he couldn't figure out himself. If he can't figure it out, it must be rather severe. He knows more than the Arch-Mage, only he doesn't flaunt it. He can solve nearly any problem if he focused on it."

"Be careful. The last thing you need is to get sucked into this war, Ylsa. There's no changing either side."

"I know," she mutters, eyes trailing around the table. "I know. Now I have dragons to worry about, anyway."

He observes her for a few tense moments, then utters, "Girl, what have you done?"

Her expression changes into distress. "I... may have slept with a Stormcloakgeneral."

"Shor's stones, woman!" he sounds, eyes going wide. "What were you thinking?"

She bites her lip. "He asked me to help with his stupid battle, and if I hadn't been there, thrice as many would have died! And then it just happened!"

His stare of dissatisfaction and irritation is suffocating. "Really. It just happened, did it? Was it at least good?"

"No!" she bursts out in response. "No, it wasn't!" and covers her embarrassment with her hands. Muffled, she mumbles, "And he said he would mention me in the report."

"No god can help you now," the old man mutters. "They don't even need to fiddle with your life to get it off-kilter, girl. You do it yourself."

She grimaces, face still red. "Can we stop talking about this?"

"I think not," he replies. "How do you plan to solve the issue of you getting requested again, hm? They'll do it."

"Kodlak, please."

His sharpness drops, and he leans in, saying quietly, "You didn't hear it from me, girl, but you already laid your bed. You'd best well sleep in it."

"You're telling me to join?"

"Take the apprenticeship."

She opens her mouth, clips it shut, then glowers. "Fine. Give me a moment, I'll be back."

Before he can say a word, a blue burst of magic fills the area around her and she disappears, leaving a lingering smell of magic in the air. The man sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I should have seen that coming," he grumbles to himself.

In the first wing of the Palace of Kings, Wuunferth jolts, yelling roughly and whipping around from his enchanting table. A familiar woman stares at him, leaning against his doorframe as magic spreads into the air around her like a scared deer sprinting for its life. Ripples of blue disappear. "You offered me that apprenticeship. I'll take it."

"Why are you expending so much energy when you could have just walked?" he scowls. "You of all people know that you can die from that."

"Unfer, I'm sorry I didn't knock," she snarks. "Tell your court friends I'm here."

"Ylsmerea," he sharps, eyes narrowing at her, "your magic."

She looks at him, steel-eyed as always. "Don't trouble yourself, old coot. Everything that you wrote to me still on the table?"

"I suppose. Please take the-"

The younger mage is gone before he can say another word. Alone, the court mage shakes his head. "If only I had enough skill to transport myself as she does," he mutters. "Galmar thinks I'm too powerful? Bah. He's just scraping the iceberg, isn't he."

The next day at noon, Ralof arrives at the Whiterun camp, red-faced from running and breathing heavily. Tess is the first to see him, letting out a loud whistle and calling out, "Scouty's back!"

Forehead wet with sweat, he coughs, then wheezes, "Please, Talos, tell me I lost her."

"Ralof," Ragmir greets, mildly bothered. "What dog went chasing you?"

"A fucking housecarl!" he yells, gasping for breath. "I thought you all would have left," he then heaves.

"We figured we'd best wait for you," Tholund adds, walking up. His eyes snap behind the soldier and he whispers, "who is-"

"My thane, would you quit this madness!" the woman snaps, and Ralof lets out a broken moan.

"I told you to stay in Whiterun!" he cries.

"I told you I wasn't going to," the housecarl seethes back. "And you run to a Stormcloak camp, of all places? Get over here, you-"

The soldier then shouts, "I'm a goddamned soldier, Lydia! Where else would I go?"

"Back to Whiterun! You're the Dragonborn, idiot!"

"No, I'm not! Do you know what I am? A damn scout! That's it!"

"My thane."

"Anyone mind telling what in Oblivion is going on?" Ulfric calls, good and irritated. Both Nord's freeze.

Lydia swivels her head at breakneck speed. "Don't you dare move."

"I'm breathing. I need to do that," Ralof snarls. "Look, I went to do the mission. Went fine. Then a-"

"What? You're-"

"Lydia!" he yells angrily, then continues, "A dragon showed up at some watchtower and I got dragged into fighting it."

"You're the Dragonborn!"

"I killed it, but do you see me shouting?" he barks. "No! Because I can't shout! All I did was kill the fucking thing and now I'm the damn thane of Whiterun and you won't stop following me!"

"I'm your housecarl! It's what I'm trained to do!" she hollers back.

"Talos, I think I'm going to burst and eardrum," Ragmir grumbles.

"Well, stop it!" Ralof shrieks back, face red. "I didn't ask for your training, or-"

Ulfric finally breaks. "Both of you, quiet!" he thunders. "Who are you?"

The dark-haired woman in steel stiffens, then sharps, "Lydia. I'm his newly appointed housecarl."

"How did he earn a housecarl, pray tell?" the jarl inclines his head.

"He is the Dragonborn. Killed a dragon at the Western Watchtower and Jarl Balgruuf appointed him as a thane shortly after."

The rebellion leader stares at the young man for a few tense moments. His head tilts and he grimaces. "He is not a Dragonborn, I can tell that much. However, bringing down a dragon is certainly a feat, Ralof, and it does not surprise me that you had the guts to do it. It was not even your problem to solve, yet you stepped in."

Ralof shrugs, looking worn. "What was I supposed to do? Tell Balgruuf I needed to come here? He has a temper just as bad as yours, you know. With all respect, I mean! I think you have every reason to be upset. Him, I... I don't know, my jarl," he stumbles.

Ulfric rolls his eyes. "Get your uniform back on and we'll head out. The bandits were cleared from the main trails. Lydia, was it? Do your job and keep your mouth shut. You are under pledge to listen to him once we get out of this hold, as well."

Her glare is harsh. "I don't need some lousy commander to tell me that. What in oblivion would you know about it, eh?"

Folk around all seem to hold their breaths. The jarl turns to walk away, interrupting a red-faced Ragmir with a hand on his shoulder. "She'll figure it out," he tells him. "For now, gather the men. I need to get to Riften in four days and I was already planning to be a week behind my schedule, but this is getting absurd. We're toeing a month delayed, now. Jorleif will have my head for it."

"If General Galmar doesn't get it first," the man snorts.

"Fair point," Ulfric agrees. "I might be tempting fate," he says.

He moves to gather his things from the tent he had gotten, feeling drained.

_ This will be a new record for how many unfavorable incidents I can pack into a week. First Imperials and Helgen, dragons, a Dragonborn, and now that woman? Talos spare me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment about any errors, odd sentences, and the like! Usually, three or four things slip past me.
> 
> What was your favorite moment in this chapter? Did anything surprise you? 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	5. The Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The jarl tilts his head in a way that reminds Saerlund of his mother when she's snappish but willing to hear him out. On Jarl Ulfric, it feels more like a death sentence.

The Jarl of Windhelm spends the first day back from his venture explaining to Jorleif, Galmar, and Yrsarald the mess that was Helgen and everything before and after. All the while, he scribbles his signature onto papers, counts for ledgers, reads and responds to notices, and any other task he can do whilst speaking. His back flares too many times to count, leading to the three seeing him in an undesirable moment of weakness, dry-heaving over a bucket. It takes half of an hour for his hand to be steady enough to write, and by that point, the tension in the air, full of words unspoken (that will never be spoken), is too thick to break. They leave.

At the time, he had been too tired to realize they had been there. After another half-hour of time wasted by him passing out on his desk and promptly drinking enough meads to drown himself, he is humiliated by it. He contemplates throwing out the vials Wuunferth gave him, then instead drinks three and again vomits, which leads to the same spiral of memories and even more shame. 

All in all, he wants to crack his head open by the time morning comes, but he still goes to the war room. He's the first one there and realizes that he's an hour early, so he returns to his study and brings back a large stack of paperwork down. He completes it before anyone arrives. 

Odena is the first to come by him. She clips her hip on the doorway, curses, then stares at him owlishly, brows knitted. "My jarl?"

"Odena," he greets stiffly.

"Food?" she offers, expression cutting. They're both up too early to be polite.

Ulfric nods, exhaling raggedly once the maid walks off. The door to the upper wing opens with a croak, the crack indented in it shifting mildly. It makes the man recoil and he turns faster than he should, magic sparking in his back in retaliation.

Galmar watches him, then comments, "Tell me you at least tried to sleep."

"I got a half of an hour," he grumbles, head drawn low.

"You didn't sleep on the road, either, Ulfric."

"I got a few hours," the man defends quietly.

The general moves to stand behind him, reaching to flip through the paperwork. "This all just get done, then?"

Ulfric doesn't respond, middle finger tapping on the table. His signet ring, from his father, feels heavy. His mind is unfocused and dazed. "I think," he murmurs, not entirely sure.  _ Had I done that just now? I don't remember. _

"Hm. You still starting the trip to Riften today?"

"Why would I not be?" the jarl questions, slowly trailing his gaze to the greyed man. Galmar opens his mouth, closes it, and grimaces. 

"I'll be back," he says and leaves. Ulfric sits, confused, and reviews the paperwork. Somewhere in him, he understands his disorientation and knows the reasons why, but far he's too out of it to see that. The world around him is disorganized and that is all he knows.

Odena returns before Galmar does, presenting some soup and a half loaf of bread. Ulfric finishes both within a few minutes, feeling mildly sated. He pushes it to the side of him and presses his hands against his face, eyelids heavy.

He wakes up three hours later from the loud  _ clink! _ of a dropped cup. Yrsarald's string of cried curses follows once Ulfric begins to move. Jorleif clicks his tongue while the jarl runs a hand through his hair, irritated at it being in his face. His neck aches from the awkward sleeping position.

Face red where his hands are laid, he murmurs as he tries to reorient himself. "How long was I out?"

Galmar's rugged baritone answers. "Just avoided breakfast by some ten minutes. Didn't miss a thing."

"Apologies," he says, breathing in sharply and standing to his feet.  _ Gods, I feel like I've been stomped on by a horse _ . "What are we discussing?"

Jorleif, as always, has a seamless explanation. "We were talking about dragons. More specifically, how we can protect Kynsegrove and Darkwater Crossing. That along with any last-minute things for the Riften trip."

The jarl blinks, eyes indistinct as he composes himself and thinks. His eyes sharpen and he steps forward to the war table, observing the generals.

Galmar stands leaned over the table, elbows planted on the map. A bear claw amulet hangs outwardly, while an amulet of Talos sits under his uniform. Yrsarald looks entirely abashed, lips folded into a line. A half-eaten apple sits on the corner of the wood near him.

"I leave for Riften at noon. Fill me in with what you can and we'll go from there," Ulfric states.

The Eastmarch General directs a hand to the housecarl, taking a bite of his apple. "Kynesgrove is yours," he says, munching on it.

"Well, Kynesgrove has no defense but the mines," Galmar starts, "but if they hide in the tunnels and they collapse, more of them die than if they just ran. We haven't been able to narrow anything else down."

Jorleif cracks his neck, cringing. "No," he murmurs. "We've been talking on this since breakfast. The only thing we can do is find the real Dragonborn- eliminate the threat at its source. Ralof's luck won't last forever."

"Let the Dragonborn do what they must," Ulfric states after a mild silence. "We focus on winning the war, and perhaps they will come to us once it is over. We will have ended this war come next spring."

Galmar looks to him, brows furrowed. "What? That's in mere months."

"With Yrsarald's captain, we have enough supplies to change the tide. We take Falkreath shortly after this Riften trip, Morthal at the start of true winter, and Balgruuf is forced to lay in. Markarth follows, and Solitude the last."

"In winter?" Yrsarald peers, head tilted. "Nevermind the food that would take, but surely we don't have the men."

Ulfric crosses his arms. "It would be thin, but we could do it. Provided I accomplish what I need to in Riften. For the entirety of this war, we have been avoiding our one advantage: winter. The Imperials are not accustomed to the cold, much less marching in it. Their uniforms are unfit for it. A fourth of them will freeze to death trying to get to a station and the rest will be unfit for battle by the time it comes."

"Are you sure?" Galmar questions, his usual harshness oddly gone. "That's a risky plan."

"That is what I also thought," the jarl states, "so I have never aired it. But, now that I am seeing Winterhold's stores of food nearly empty, it seems appropriate. If Jarl Korir has nothing to last the winter, it speaks volumes of the rest of the holds."

Yrsarald makes a face, puzzled. "Where are the numbers?"

Ulfric retrieves a book from the drawers in the table, hammering it onto the wood harder than he should have. His eyes are burning with annoyance and his expression is biting as he speaks. "Have I lied to you about matters as grave as this, Yrsarald?"

_ Temper,  _ he chides himself as the room goes quiet.  _ He's not done anything. _

The general inhales, taking the thick, leather-bound book and running through the pages, handwritten. He pauses on one, scanning it. "No," he swallows meekly, closing it and handing it off to Galmar, "you have not."

"I..." Ulfric's eyes close briefly and he mutters his following words promptly as if it is painful for him to vocalize. "I apologize. My impatience is uncalled for."

Yrsarald shrugs, snorting tensely. "I thought you'd be yelling at me by now, to be honest."

No one speaks for a few moments. Jorleif, head tilted and brows slightly aloft breaks the quiet. "You've put forth a great deal of effort on improving your tolerance, Ulfric. Don't think we haven't noticed. Some days do not settle. If today is one of those days, so be it. You are trying to improve, and even if you do not, the fact that you are attempting it at all makes your moments of upheaval minor."

The jarl rolls his eyes in such a way that is so primitively  _ him. _ It's one of those things that define him, mostly being that if he didn't do it so regularly none of his closest men would know if he still had some youth in him or not. He had done it since he was a mere boy. "I count results, Jorleif, not attempts."

Galmar adds, "And so we know you'll stick with it. You're resolute. Finally, it's doing some good."

"You can compliment people?" Yrsarald questions, turning to the older man with surprise. Jorleif takes a sip of whatever is in his tankard. "I hadn't known."

"You're hearing things again, Yrsa," Galmar states dryly. "Get your ears checked."

Jorleif covers his mouth with the back of his hand, setting down his drink quickly and coughing mildly. Ulfric then airs, "What were you lot thinking for Riften plans? Any changes?

Galmar is the first to answer. "I'll be coming. We take Ralof because I need to make sure that housecarl of his stays in line- don't think I haven't heard the way she was talking," he grumbles, which is both a threat to the woman (whom he has not met) and a scold to Ulfric for not reprimanding her.

The jarl crosses his arms. "I was of the mind to let Ralof do it. Eventually, he's going to snap and she'll have to learn her place. Give him the respect she needs to. Now that she's doubtful he's the Dragonborn, she doesn't have a reason to keep her oath other than honor. That's dangerous. We don't know if she can be trusted with only that. Too many could be put at risk if we try to handle it, and either way, I don't want to deal with that woman any more than I have to. She's unpleasant."

Jorleif makes a noise. "How tall is she?"

"Average, I suppose."

"Did you catch her name?"

Ulfric pauses, eyes lowering to trace the table as he flies through his memory. "Lydia," he answers firmly.

"Oh! Good!" Jorleif exclaims. Yrsarald frowns.

"Is this another thing about that mercenary you've been infatuated with?"

The steward is quick to defend, saying bitingly, "I'll have you know that the Autumn-Gale is much more than a mercenary, Yrsarald! Even if they're dead, I want to know the story!"

At the faltering glances of Galmar and Ulfric who hadn't been told of recent events surrounding Jorleif, the Eastmarch General elaborates. "He's been fascinated with this sellsword that went missing some eighteen years ago since the jarl left because he got shipped their battleaxe. I say he just got old, but because Jorleif met 'em, he feels bad."

Jorleif remarks with enthusiasm, "And who knows if it was a man or a woman, hm? Why were they looking for Merethic Era repositories, and why did they come to me? Why do I have their battleaxe? It has to be ridiculously expensive, and someone sent it to me! It means something!"

Yrsarald sends a slow-blinking look to Galmar, who stifles a snort and says an agreeable, "Of course, Jorleif."

"See! Even Galmar-" the steward cuts himself off, excitement beheaded from the man's evasion. "I'm going to find out something tremendously important and you all are going to be awfully sorry for mocking me," he warns. "Mark my words."

Ulfric nods. "Mhm."

"Oh, stop it," Jorleif mutters. "You're on thin ice yourself."

Galmar's attention turns quickly back to Ulfric and in a loud, berating tone, he barks, "What was that barrow stunt, huh? I heard some things from Ragmir and Tholund."

"What? It worked out."

"You were killing draugr! I explicitly told you not to!"

"I was bored!"

"Oh, so that makes it fine to go strutting around, killing undead that-"

"Galmar."

"What?" the general grunts.

Ulfric stares. "Did no one tell you about Tess, yet?"

"The Riften lass?"

"She tried to loot a few urns."

The rage the man goes into is exactly what Ulfric had hoped for. "She's on the list for this trip, then," he snaps. He turns to a guard posted in the room, pointing at him threateningly. "You know Tess. Find her, get her debriefed by Ralof, and tell me when you're finished."

Nodding, the guard salutes and turns, walking out of the war room, nearly running into Wuunferth on the way. The court mage scowls at him then continues, pausing at the archway. "My jarl," he greets.

_ Exactly what I have the patience for. The damn mage.  _ "Court mage. What news have you?"

"My apprentice has accepted my offer. She'll be here in a fortnight. If any of you have concerns, I suppose I can lay them to rest," Wuunferth states.

Jorleif, notably, is the first to present an inquiry. "Is she a Nord?"

The mage looks bored already. "Indeed."

"And she's how old?" Yrsarald questions.

"Not much younger than you."

Galmar sniffs. "She got a family name?"

That induces a shrug from Wuunferth. "Not that I'm aware of. She's been on her own since she was young. At least, that's what she told me. I'm quite sure she wouldn't lie about that."

"She's controlled with her use of magic, I assume," Ulfric comments.  _ He knows better than to choose an apprentice that is erratic. We learned that lesson already.  _

"More so than any mage I have ever seen."

"Does she surpass your skill?" the jarl's head tilts back

The mage's eyes stare too knowingly, unnervingly similar to a seer Ulfric had once met. As if he's tempted fate by the words he soon speaks. "In restoration, by far."

Jorleif points out, hesitant, "I thought you told me that was your worst school, Wuunferth. I sense you do not tell the whole truth."

"I want to give her the best chance I can of becoming my successor. To do that, it would be better for both parties to remain unaware of the others' skills. Compare it to a skirmish drill. If you give the newbloods every piece of information they need to defeat the other unit, how will they learn how to gather that knowledge themselves? They will not. If I give you all I know of Ylsmerea, there will be a great deal that will never be discovered."

Ulfric rolls his eyes, scoffing airly. "You do not even know your apprentice, do you?"

"I know her skill, I know her methods, and mistake me not," Wuunferth raises a lightly shaking finger, "her commitment to achieving the unthinkable bests even yours. In that spirit, would you consider trying to gain her trust? At least give minor care to not constantly berate her."

"I will not be so shallow as to pretend to like her," Ulfric mutters. "That is petty."

Wuunferth snorts. "Good enough. She'd know if you did. All I ask is to be mindful and to give her a chance. She'll be treating you, as we have discussed. The more you tell her, the better she can help you, and everyone benefits from your good health. If you do not want to tell her about yourself, she enjoys listening to stories just as much as telling them. If you cannot find common ground, ask questions. Her patience is tempered steel. Trust me, I have tried to crack it, to no avail."

Yrsarald perks up. "She has good stories?"

"Better than yours," the mage is quick to say, inducing a chuckle from the other men. "She probably plays cards. King's Board, maybe? Who knows, with her. She's done just about everything you could think of, being a wanderer."

"King's Board is hard if you're playing someone better, though," the general grumbles. "I want to win."

Galmar raises a brow. "Travellers are deceptively good at Iron Hearts, Yrsa. You know that. You got taught to play King's Board. If you lose, we know she was formally educated. I don't think you could get any better a teacher than old man Bolder."

"And I'll be beaten by the man the second I go to Sovngarde if I lose to her!" the shorter man groans. "Wuunferth, how does she compare to Bolder in personality?"

The mage pauses. "I can see a few similarities."

Jorleif winces. "And to Silda?"

"Mm, Ylsa is less demanding. She'll make you do something and you'll still think that you chose to do it. Silda only ordered folk around. Honest like that. My apprentice is not that direct unless she's in a mood."

"Is she in moods often?" Jorleif questions.

Wuunferth blinks. "I wouldn't know. She doesn't much care for me. I can't tell."

"Is she going to be designated as a resident?"

"I would assume so. Oh, dear, Jorleif. I'd hate to be you, calculating thirty-two years of taxes with a vague income. I do think she keeps ledgers, though."

The steward sighs. "Not that it would help."

Yrsarald, confused, glances around. "I don't understand. Has she avoided tax?"

"Travellers don't get taxed," Jorleif states thinly. "But, when they choose to settle down, they get to pay back all their years of allowed evasion at a higher rate that climbs as the years number. So, even if we waited to get her official citizenship until she was the court mage, she would still be paying some twenty percent tax."

"Without the percent deduction laws accounted for, I assume," Ulfric frowns. 

Jorleif grimaces. "No. If she were earning about a thousand septims a year, it would be twenty percent. Any more than that, it increases by a third of a percent by a thousand septims. So, if she was earning four thousand septims, somehow, it would be just under a fourth of her income."

Galmar extends his hands. "I'll gladly take that coin. You know how much that could do if that was just one year out of thirty-two?"

Ulfric scowls. "If she turns out to be what you speak of, Wuunferth, perhaps we can agree on a further reduction of the cost. She will not have an effortless task ahead of her."

"You reference the treatment, I assume? Oh, that's free of cost," Wuunferth airs, waving his hand. "Think of it as an initiation."

"I will not refuse to pay even the most disagreeable of people who I employ. It's dishonorable and damaging to those who allow themselves to be used so easily."

"Come now. She has problems that follow her, Ulfric. Ones that I know not of, but I know that a relation, even minor, with you would guarantee her a safe place with folk if she needs it. She is a giving person, but she puts her well-being first. It's a diplomatic thing more than anything. She doesn't want the coin, either. I've been down that road and you only come out of it with her winning. She is offering it as goodwill, and nothing more than that."

Ulfric shakes his head. "I dislike it."

"Even if she accepts your coin, she'll find a way to get it back to you. Be it her giving it to soldiers or buying you things, she'll circle it back double."

"She buys people things?" Yrsarald asks, face twisted in mock disgust. "Too polite."

Wuunferth shrugs. "She likes surprising folk."

"Such things often lead to more death on the battlefield. If she comes to negatively affect any part of this war or play games with the lives of my men, Wuunferth, her head will hang. Is that understood?" the jarl snaps, tone severe. Every man in the room knows he does not use threats lightly.

Yet, the mage only chuckles. "I will relay the message, my jarl."

Galmar speaks warningly, "Is that funny to you, old man? She is your apprentice. You need to have her in line. We will not have a repeat of what has happened."

"She is not my child, nor my slave. Speak to her yourself of what you expect of her. I am here to tell you that she is an exceptional woman first and a brilliant mage second. I have told you, as is my duty as court mage, who I have appointed as my successor and why I have chosen them. Do with it as you wish. I will take my leave."

Jorleif then frowns, saying quickly, "A moment. She's unmarried, yes?"

"As far as I know."

"And she is a nomad. She must have good relations with people of all sorts."

"More than you can imagine," Wuunferth answers.

"Social, well-mannered, giving, and not dissimilar to our age. I wonder who could benefit from a woman like that," Jorleif casts a sharp, pointed look to the jarl.

Ulfric's returning stare is nothing short of wrath. "Both of you will leave. Now."

The steward sighs under his breath but follows Wuunferth out the door and continues asking questions. The jarl exhales in a huff, barely able to keep his temper in his throat.

Galmar sniffs. "He does it in good intent, Ulfric. You are too tense at the thought of marriage. You are no more trapped being wed than you are now. I have no doubt you can handle it, and that the woman Jorleif will find for you will be understanding. They are kinder than us men, you know. Buy her gems and all is well."

"Coming from the notorious brothel-hopper, marriage advice? A load of horse-shite," Yrsarald's eyes are unwavering, expression earnest. "Let the man be, Galmar. He gets cross when you push too hard and he's already had his fill of patience prodding this week."

"He's not a child. He's standing right there," the housecarl sharps back. They both glance at the man. Ulfric is staring at the wall, brows knit somewhat. Silent, he takes a chair to the wall and stands upon it, stretching to brush his fingertips on the groves between the bricks of the upper part of the room.

He rubs his fingers, then reels in a distinct you-have-to-be-jesting expression with his eyes rolling back briefly and his jaw clenched. He gets off the chair, kicks it out of the way, and then hastily makes his way to the throne hall. Yrsarald and Galmar follow, disturbed.

He observes the top of the walls. Ulfric even takes a broom from a passing maid to lift one of the lower banners on the wall. Quiet as death, he returns the item and then shakes his head. "We leave for Riften. Now," he mutters. "Tell the maids to clean the walls before they go green with mold."

Yrsarald blinks, wide-eyed. "I thought we kept it contained to the closed wings!"

"It was hopeful thinking," Ulfric growls. "Gather the men. We leave in an hour."

The ride to Riften was comfortable. Ralof and Lydia were kept to the rear end of the unit, making their constant bickering nearly inaudible from the front of it. Ulfric and Galmar did not speak often, merely discussing vaguely interesting sights and Falkreath plans. They shared irritation at the remaining two children of the Snow-Shod family (Lilija, who had gone missing after a skirmish and proclaimed dead by a sorrowful traveler, had been the favorite out of them for many reasons), nobles in Riften, and the taste of Black-Briar mead.

Even if Ulfric did like more bitter meads, that swill did not qualify as a proper Nordic drink. Whoever made it did not care for it as they should, and anyone who had tried homebrewed mead previously would be able to tell. The ingredients were not bound as they should be.

Overall, the trip was uneventful. Lydia and Ralof eventually came to terms after a duel found them to be true equals. Galmar rolled his eyes at it only because Ulfric consistently beat him in spars. In truth, the two young adults were fairly good around a weapon, but not to the extent of them being too extraordinary. Galmar was a hardened veteran, and Ulfric just the same. Their skill came from the haunting sight of corpses and dismembered limbs littered in piles on fields and scars that laid upon their skin.

There had been no horrible battles comparable to the Great War in this war yet. Largely, it was due to the fact it had only escalated to full-scale warfare once Ulfric killed High King Torygg a mere year ago. It was noticeable aggression before then, with Imperials being killed whenever they tried to slip into towns to quietly take worshipers of Talos. All of it was discreet.

And then, the Thalmor began to grow out of control and Ulfric could no longer stand by in quiet. Torygg the boy-king was (in plain terms) shite at his responsibilities- his negotiations with the elves only allowed them more power. 

How many times had Ulfric and Balgruuf been called upon to fix the boy's problems? There was never an attempt from Torygg to learn how to properly rule, and Ulfric couldn't even fathom how the boy could look at himself in a mirror. All he did was order jarls around!

If Torygg had said one too many childish comments about Hoag, based on the words of his father, they were now words of a dead man. If he had insulted farmers and working citizens under him, Ulfric would not speak of it. If Ulfric had stumbled upon him cornering a maid in the home of his ancestors, her skirts hiked up and a hand clamped over her mouth, he did not speak of it. The boy dared to break out in tears once Ulfric had started to yell at him. 

The jarl prayed his words would be enough, but once a man starts on a path like that, no one can pull him off it but himself. Surrounded by a weak-willed council who merely wanted to get the day's work done, Torygg's  _ problem  _ began to take control of him.

Ulfric found a repeat of that event thrice more while at the boy-king's abode. Drunk, laughing, and hiccuping, the boy encouraged him to join, three times.

And perhaps worse than joining the king in his perversion, Ulfric turned tail and walked off. Thrice. He did not speak of it. He did not treat the boy any differently. He pulled the boy aside one night and tried to admit what he knew was the cause, but the words would not form. It ended up being a tense talk of advice upon a recent dilemma-  _ stop this nonsense. That woman is a snake and you know it. _

Nothing more. 

The final event that broke his tolerance? Ulfric had caught the man throwing mead bottles at his wife- the very Jarl Elisif the Fair that despised him now. Glass shards were embedded into her thigh, her wrist was moments away from being broken, Ulfric was an unwelcome presence in the room. Elisif looked both terrified and angry, her husband wearing an expression of cluelessness. "Bring your sword to tomorrow's council, Torygg," is all the jarl said.

The High King laid dead the next day. Rumors spiraled of why Ulfric had done it,  _ war,  _ most said.  _ Greed.  _

_ I could not watch it anymore. _

He could have saved that boy. Could have tried harder, pushed more. But was it not his fault that he did not keep Torygg, a young boy no older than eight, from those nobles in Markarth? He did not tell his father what they did in their spare time.

He let it happen by not putting an end to it. Allowed the cycle to repeat. First his little brother, then Torygg; both had looked up to him and he had failed them. With Jorag, he did not know until it was too late. 

Torygg, he could tell. He saw that boy destroy himself over it. Swallowed his words as the boy relived his trauma through others as a poor attempt to rid the humiliation.

It never truly leaves, though. 

Upon entering an empty Mistveil Keep in early morning hours, Ulfric finds himself irritated beyond his mind and decides to wake Jarl Laila by his own accord. He had been up all night, plotting, and she gets a full night of sleep and more? Unacceptable.

Galmar behind him and Riften guard frantically pleading him to leave the woman be, he pounds on the door to the jarl's private chambers.  _ If you do your job poorly, you should not be wasting your time sleeping. Privacy is not something I am obligated to give to a failing jarl, woman or no.  _

He gets an odd answer. "Did I not tell you fools to leave us?" 

It is not strange because of the words spoken. It is the voice. Laila had never sounded even remotely like Maven Black-Briar, to Ulfric's knowledge.

Without hesitation, the jarl unlocks the door with a key he intimidated off a guard and twists it open. 

_ Gods forbid, Maven's breasts are a sight I did not need to see. _ He sets his face in a glower, his body blocking the room from the crowd. "War room, Laila. Now."

And he slams the door shut. Galmar recoils. "What in Oblivion?"

Ulfric abruptly curses, not too often of an occurrence, and cringes. "That will be an ingrained sight."

"Talos, share it."

"Laila entangled with Maven Black-Briar, both of them indecent."

The housecarl lets out a guttural cackle. "My lord, you are a lucky man! To see women bare, unprompted? What I would give to have your eyes after that."

"You are welcome to take them from me," Ulfric mutters. "They're scarred from this moment. Come, Gonnar will debrief us while we wait for Jarl Laila to gather herself. She is a widow, may I remind you."

Galmar snorts. "Certainly isn't stopping her."

"Spare me of the vulgarities," the jarl counters just before they enter the small room designated for business in the keep. "General Oath-Giver, Talos has bid you fair health. How fairs it? The wife?"

Gonnar chuckles, exchanging a clap of the back with Galmar. "Life is wild, as is her, my jarl. Impatient for me to return, more so now that she expects our boy within the next month."

_ Thank Talos that the deployment will work with his wife. I'm not in favor of another tear-stained, angry letter.  _ "You will be pushing into Falkreath within the week. If Talos is with us, you will be home with her before the true cold hits."

"Jarl Ulfric, I could not give enough thanks."

Galmar snorts. "Enough with this talk. Your men have moved well to the new training, yes?"

"Without a doubt. The first days were ripe with bitching, but after it, they found it to be a worthy challenge. What is this talk of advancing to Falkreath, if I may?" 

Galmar snorts. "Imperial uniforms are not fit to deal with blizzards. With enough push this winter, we can freeze and starve them out of Morthal after getting your men from the dungeons. We cut off all routes to Whiterun and force that old goat of a jarl to agree to terms. After that, we have the means to drive those damn red-cloaks out for good and put Ulfric on the throne."

The jarl's face is solemn. "I anticipate a draft in the future. The winter after this, no hold will have reserves because of the strain of the Legionnaires. Citizens will have to choose between picking up their weapons, collective living while we fight, or dying. This is no longer a contesting of oppression, but a battle for basic survival. Which," Jarl Ulfric turns his attention to Jarl Laila, who comes stumbling in, red-faced and adjusting her collar, "is why I am here. Where are your sons? Your steward?"

The woman airs to a maid bustling by, "Wake Harrald, please. And Anuriel." 

"Don't forget the one you disowned," Galmar stares. "We've got a few words to share."

"As the General says," Laila murmurs. The maid dips her head and hustles off, bringing a guard from Laila's entourage with her. "I... apologize for the-"

Ulfric doesn't want to talk about what he saw.  _ My skin crawls just thinking about it. I have work to do, and I need to get her council sorted out.  _ "Widows are traditionally abstinent if you were not told. We leave it at that. I assume you are aware of the current state of your food provisions."

She gathers herself. "Anuriel handles such tasks. Come, may we not have breakfast in my hall? Your travels must have been tiring. My cooks can provide more than adequate food."

"I had rations," he lies. "We have much to do, and I will be here for no more than a day to fix your mess, Laila. I will not hesitate to trim you of your title and swear in someone who will care for this trench hole of a city with at least some diligence."

"But I have been fixing the problems!" she cries, face twisting into anger. "And who are you to call my city a trench hole! Look at your own!"

"Do I have people dying on the streets from drug overdoses?" Ulfric questions, restrained. "Do my people still come to me for aid, even those who dislike me? Do I hold councils for my citizens? Do I produce ways for them to provide for themselves? Tell me, Laila, can you name the owner of the inn in your city?"

She stumbles. Ulfric continues to attack. "I thought not. You gossip of my selfishness and turn a glass eye to your own. Be my goal to be king or not; at least I can make the best of the worst."

"So you admit it. You only want to be High King."

"I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. Believe what you wish of me," the man mutters. "I hold no care for what you think. You are too cowardly to act upon it, and yet you can't seem to keep your tongue in your mouth. Perhaps you should have found another husband, for at least he would have taught your sons not to flap their mouths and brought you in line."

Galmar's eyes flicker to him in masked uncertainty. The woman swallows thickly. "You have no children of your own. Who are you to tell me how to teach my sons?"

"I could not count how many other mothers' sons have I seen walk through the doors of the Palace of Kings. If there is any age I am familiar with, it is the age of your sons. Both of which you have grievously failed."

The housecarl moves to the entryway, assessing the new group that the maid rounded up as the jarl speaks in smoothly covered anger. "I may not have my own heirs, but I am a mentor to many. It is you whom they aspire to be, and your voice that echoes in the back of their minds. How sickening of you to disown one because he begins to reflect how poorly you have raised him. You rip apart the bond of brothers who had always been attached at the hip from infancy."

"He speaks ill of  _ you,  _ and you lecture me on my choice to dismiss him? What would you have had me do?" she nearly yells. 

Ulfric shrugs. "Why not disown them both? If you dislike one, it is better to send them to the wolves together than pretend to care for them both. You can think about it with your lying council, Laila. Leave. You will be called back when you are needed."

The room is thick with silence as she attends his words, eyes lined with liquid. As with all arguments Ulfric incites, he wins the conflict. He had taken the woman off guard on five fronts, four he had prepared and one he had not.

_ Attack a jarl's city, their ways, their closest loved ones, conclude it with them being a disgrace, and you have wrecked them with words in three minutes. I drove her into a corner, forced her to say things she did not mean, and left her feeling humiliated. Thank you for that lesson, father. _

_ Discovering her affair with Maven was mere luck. _

Silent, the sons of Laila enter the room with the steward of the city behind them. The jarl's housecarl had left to follow Laila. Ulfric could make out sobs as she fled, and he did not feel remorse. 

The Altmer steward could not keep still the second Ulfric leveled his gaze upon her. "Elf, you have broken your sworn oath to your jarl, as Gonnar reports. Either you are stupid for not knowing your vows or Maven has paid you out."

"Maven gave me coin," she squeaks pitifully. "I- I have a mother back in the Isles-"

"Do not think I care about your estranged knife-eared family," the rebellion leader interrupts sharply. "You know what you agreed to, and you knew precisely what the risks were upon taking Maven's side. Tell me, have you any aptitude for your kind's gifts, or is this all you can do? Swindle?"

"No, no, I can cast. But it is not my joy. I was- I was-"

"Well, then you can find your redemption in enlisting. If you are accepted into the ranks, you will earn the immensely lenient opportunity to be assimilated back into citizenship. Or, you can be banished from Skyrim's borders and hauled to your mother. Your choice," he threatens. When she stumbles and stutters, wide-eyed and unable to speak, he barks, "Ten seconds, elf."

"I-I'll enlist."

"Gonnar, side room. Get all the oaths done and assign her to a battle mage that knows their way about."

"My lord," the man dips his head. "Anuriel, follow me."

"Galmar, take Saerlund for a walk to the barracks," Ulfric orders, as both men had planned. With the general and the younger son of Laila gone, it leaves Ulfric and the eldest son.

The young man is uncomfortable. The jarl gives him no comfort with his words. "Tell me honestly, boy, what do you think you are here for?"

The Nord shifts. "After your words of my mother, I assume you are here to give me the authority of a jarl."

At least he can pretend to be sure of himself. Ulfric raises a brow. "Give you the authority of jarl?"

"Grant, my jarl."

"I cannot give or grant you power. A jarl earns his power, keep, and city through his actions. You should know that."

Harrald goes tense. "I had not meant to offend."

The leader of the rebellion's frigidly amused expression turns unreadable. "You are here because I am giving you an opportunity just as I give to your younger brother. Your father was never one for second chances, though I doubt you can remember him. He brought reason to your mother."

"Why do you speak of him?"

"Because he was a good man, and he deserves to be talked of. He would have leveled you and your brother out to the point where both of you would have been similar to him. I see none of him in you, regrettably."

"You imply I am not a man."

Ulfric's eyes are cutting. "Are you? You turn on your blood brother like he is a plague instead of guiding him. The only way you show honor is by abiding by your mother's wishes, and that is no longer respectable. You have nothing you aspire to, nothing you work towards. I do not see a man in you. I see a lad who is entitled and lazy."

"Well, Saerlund is a fool," Harrald mutters.

"A fool or not, he is your brother. He has done nothing to wrong you. It is the eldest son's responsibility to pave the way for his siblings, and the importance only doubles when your father endures in Sovngarde. He will always be your brother. Galmar himself has a younger brother that is a drunkard on the street, but there is still care for the idiot in him. Shame, too, but he would be there if his brother asked for guidance," Ulfric states. 

When the younger man does not answer, the jarl leans over the table in the room. "Hate him as much as you like, but Saerlund is the closest bond you could ever have. Do not let a few misunderstandings destroy your brotherhood. Teach him, and if you do not know how, learn. Take it upon yourself to do better, if not for yourself, for him. And if not for him, then for this city."

The son scowls. "Is this some call to arms? Some lame threat?"

"No. I am advising you. For now, I am putting you in your mother's place and your brother not far behind. Come nightfall, I will get you appointed for a trial phase and have you swear your oaths. It is in earnest I give you my hand for aid if you should need it. Your brother, too, if he comes to his senses. Write to my steward, myself, or my council. Any of them. My resources are yours."

Harrald recoils. "You... you would aid me?"

Ulfric blinks, slow. "You understand I am not a man to cross. That is all the assurance I need. As an experienced jarl, it is my obligation to guide you. If you want a more selfish reason, Riften has been a throne in my side for decades. A jarl that is adequate at his duty could spare me countless resources, even if he has never-ending questions. Then too, I hold respect for your father."

"But not my mother?" the blond murmurs.

"Twenty years ago, yes. Laila fought hard for what she thought was right. She had a fire about her. You could not walk in the mead hall without her calling you over. She was just as welcoming as she was passionate, and her skill with a sword was nothing to scoff at."

"I've never heard how she acted before I was born. I thought women actively fighting was a jest. It is, right?"

Ulfric's shoulders drop and he murmurs a prayer for patience. "You have much yet to learn, Harrald."

Outside, inaudible to the jarl, Galmar and Saerlund recover from a rough conversation of truths. They are both tense, unsure of how to proceed. Saerlund breaks the silence. "I can agree with the message and not stand behind the man leading it, I suppose."

"They are the same," Galmar mutters. "You don't want to see it, so you do not, but he is a good man. Equally as just as our cause. If you showed on his doorstep in the cold, he would not turn you away. Very few are subject to his full anger, and that red-cloak general is not one of them. Nor were your ideas, but they were mindless sprouts of the mouth. If you had passion behind them, a willingness to act, we would be in a much different place today. Ironic that I now tell you to act, isn't it?"

The younger man snorts. "I guess."

Galmar hesitates, though not perceived by the boy. "Folk call this war mad because they have been spared from the worst of it. None of your family has been ripped out of your hands by traveling Imperials. Do you know how many people have been reported taken?"

"Twenty?"

"One hundred and four. We've found ten alive. When we get to the elven bastards squatting near Solitude, I expect to find a pit where all the others lay. Hair shorn, starved, and rotted," he states, lips drawn in a thin line. "The Empire is bad enough without factoring in the Dominion. It corrupts itself. Too much power and coin in the wrong hands. The Thalmor is the latest example."

"I... I will not forget your words, but I still dislike Jarl Ulfric. He brought my mother to tears."

"You ever think to question why? Perhaps how?"

"I don't care. She's my mother, even if she disowned me and I can't stand looking at her. It's harder not to look when she's sobbing."

Galmar rolls his eyes, irritated. "Fine. I would choose your battles wiser after this."

The two enter the room. Ulfric and Harrald watch like hawks scouring Skyrim's plains for field mice. The housecarl sighs. "He wants to talk to you himself."

"Well now, Saerlund, you have guts after all. Go on. Speak."

"First of all, I thought what I did because I had no other information. It seemed right. Your cause is understandable now. You, however- you only care for the throne in Solitude and then you come into Riften, acting as if you rule here. You don't."

The jarl tilts his head in a way that reminds Saerlund of his mother when she's snappish but willing to hear him out. On Jarl Ulfric, it feels more like a death sentence. "That is it?"

"You brought my mother to tears. That's not acceptable, jarl or not."

Ulfric stares. "Challenge me, then. If I have spit upon your family, fight back."

"That's suicide."

"Yet you had no qualms speaking freely against me. Is that not also condemning yourself to death, boy? No, no, I'll humor you. Throw your fist. I'll give you a pardon."

Before Harrald or Galmar can insist otherwise, the younger son charges. Ulfric trips him and the boy lands in a mostly harmless heap. The room is silent as he looks down.

"You said you would pardon me!" Saerlund hisses.

Harrald snarls, barking before anyone else, "You writhing idiot! That doesn't mean he can't defend himself. The leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion just willing allowed you to try to punch him without consequence. Can you not see that? Your beloved General Tullius would have hung you from the gallows!"

"Tullius is just as bad!"

"Oh, so now you dislike them both? Are you that fickle?"

"Yes! Wait- wait, I didn't-"

"You are as brilliant as a brick. Get up, brother," the eldest son grumbles, heaving his younger brother to his feet. 

Stunned, Saerlund murmurs, "Why did you help me?"

"Because you lack any sense. From your inability to grow a beard to your wit."

"Hey, it's there!"

"It looks like shite!"

"Alright, that's enough," Galmar barks. "Get yourselves together and go find the steward's ledgers. We have work to do and you both have a cartload of things to learn. Still have a dozen things to do and we're running behind schedule."

They get out of that dreaded room only in the late afternoon to settle things in the orphanage. Ralof and Lydia handle it well and the two find common ground in the shared joy of having children around.

Ulfric finds it alarming, but each to his own. The only young child he ever truly liked was Arvid (and Jorag, but the memories were foggy), who had a new natural state of thriving. Grinning, boisterous, and wanting any knowledge he could pry from a person, the boy was the ideal representation of a son. 

Still, the orphanage brings him unease.

He dislikes the parents of the children who left them in such terrible care. There had never been a time where he was careless with rolls in the hay- he knew he was not ready for  _ that _ particular consequence involved when things went awry and made it known. Why did other people not follow that principle? What generation had failed to make clear that both their sons and daughters should be careful when messing around out of wedlock?

It's not right for a child to be raised in uncertainty. Galmar, for example, had gone through an unstable home life and persisted but his brother, Rolff, certainly didn't. Without getting into the Empire much younger than it was legally allowed, Galmar wouldn't have made it either. 

To put a young tot in the middle of chaos breeds, more often than not, bad things. Sometimes, it turns them into truly remarkable people, but that is one for every ninety-nine that doesn't make it. How any parent in their right minds could let such a thing happen is beyond Ulfric.

He's not a parent. At this rate, he won't ever be, and he's not entirely upset about it. If he can't find it in him to like children as a whole he dreads what kind of father he would be.

Then again, his father's housecarl had once told Ulfric that his father was never one for children. It reminds him of Jorag's ill-fated birth, which resulted in the death of their mother. From what Ulfric heard, his father had been distraught. He had been too young to write at the time and too little to understand his mother dying.

_ Didn't Jorag have a stillborn twin? I think so. Talos, Torbjorn is lucky to have both of his daughters and his wife after such risky childbirth. Gods forbid I ever have to deal with that. Twins. The thought brews a headache and stress by it's lonesome. _

Ulfric decides he is no happier thinking of children than he is of finding a wife and drops the subject, distracted by one of the orphans staring at him like a bewildered goat.

"Do you always look so angry?" she asks, stare piercing in a way that only children can replicate. He is sitting in an armchair in the entryway, out of sight of the main portion of the home where chaos has been consistent, so her attention is startling.

He falls back on Jorleif's lectures, as much as he hates them. "Probably."

She giggles. "Wanna play tag? Or would your old man back give out?"

_ How does she know?  _ "I am afraid so."

"Is that an axe? Do you know how to fight? Can you teach me how to? Please! I can do any chore you ask! I won't even talk, promise."

_ Son of a bitch.  _ "You should ask Ralof."

"He's boring!" she cries.

"Well, Lydia knows how to fight," Ulfric makes desperate eye contact with Galmar, who looks away, uninterested in his plight.

"She's scary!" the girl yelps, brows furrowing.

_ Talos _ ,  _ grant me patience.  _ "See that man over there? His name is Galmar. Loves to fight, trains people every day. I think you'll have better luck with him."

"But he's scary too."

Ulfric inclines his head, shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. "I can't help you, girl."

She then recoils, visibly hurt by his words. She doesn't make eye contact. The jarl wants to slam his head against a wall. First Sofie, now this one? He has a talent for making young girls cry, it seems. That or the gods are just spiting him. Likely both.

"I hadn't meant to hurt your feelings," he says awkwardly. "Ralof and Lydia would probably be better to ask questions of, child."

This incites a full-on sob and Ulfric is stumbling for words, not knowing what he did to upset the little girl to this extent. Galmar approaches, eyes biting as if to say, "Really? This again?"

Soothingly, Galmar kneels to pick the girl up and move her to the main room, just quiet enough with his words where Ulfric can't hear them. They're probably some sort of insult to him, which is acceptable if it makes the girl feel better. 

The housecarl does not comment on this incident as they make to leave not long after. He goes to pat Ulfric's shoulder in brotherly pity, even, but abruptly stops. 

After leaving the small orphanage, the greyed man mutters, "I can feel it. The shit that Wuunferth told me about. Trapped magic or whatever. Does it flare as bad as this often?"

"Bah," Ulfric says, lips lifting in a rigid grin. "I've never felt better."

Galmar chuckles, shaking his head. "I don't know how you've made it this far, brother."

"Don't give the gods ideas," the jarl warns. "It bad luck, tempting them like that. Is it time to meet Vulwulf yet?"

The warrior looks around. "I'd say so. I'm getting hungry, and Nura cooks good food."

"That she does," Ufric agrees as they begin to walk to the family's manor, trailed by a handful of guards. "Lilija's absence will be difficult to manage. Asgeir has probably done something unwise already."

Galmar cringes. "That milk-drinker is going to run them all to the ground with his ideas. Vulwulf is getting old- he won't be able to stop him for much longer. Think that's why they pushed so hard for a gathering?"

"I would not be surprised if it was. Now that I think of him, I haven't seen Asgeir since his coming of age rite. If he's just as dull as he was then, hopefully he's at least taller."

The other man nods, grim. "With him mingling with Maven, I hope he plans to overthrow her."

Ulfric eyes him suspiciously. "Do you, now."

Galmar defends, "What's that look for?" then he tilts his head, a grin running around his face, "Is that what you were intending?"

The jarl scowls, rolling his eyes, stopping in front of the manor. "Guards, keep at the doors. There is a back entrance through the alleyway off to the right in the courtyard. Should be a few hours."

A chorus of, "My jarl," rings back. The soldiers split off, finding their posts as Galmar thuds the doorknocker. It opens not moments after, revealing a short, thin woman. Her smile stretches her face.

"General Galmar, Jarl Ulfric, do come in! Let me take your cloaks. The meal will be ready in a bit," she beams. Her clear blue eyes sparkle with joy and her light blond hair shifts as she moves.

Ulfric dips his head in thanks, glancing around the living room to see only Unmid, leaning into the entryway to the dining room. Galmar receives a hug from Nura, as she always has done. Ulfric had made it clear the first time they met when he was the Jarl of Eastmarch that he was not in favor of such contact. She respected it but often scolded him for being so quiet.

The two men shuffle further into the house. Vulwulf's unmistakable voice echoes from the dining room before he enters the living room. Ulfric isn't able to turn around fast enough. "Hoag's son! It's been too long!"

The jarl brutally holds in a yell when the older man claps his back and Galmar takes a sharp inhale. Holding composure, Ulfric nods and replies, "It is good to see you, Vulwulf."

"You look fierce, as always. I hear you have been making rounds in Laila's keep. I suppose I should say Harrald's, now."

"Indeed. If everything goes well, I would see this city changing soon. The boy cares enough for his people, but he needed some pushing to get to where I wanted him," the man answers. "If he's got any sense, he'll stay there. His jarlship isn't official until next summer."

Vulwulf chuckles, a rolling, hearty sound. "Never one to let folk get off their toes, eh, lad?" the man loses his laugh. "On a matter of sense, though, Asgeir's forgotten all of it. He's been lined up with that Black-Briar whore, and if that wasn't bad enough, now he wants to marry some cousin of the Emperor. My Nura's too sweet to say a damn thing, you know, but it's cutting her apart. And don't get me started on how I feel about it."

Ulfric clicks his teeth.  _ Worse than I thought, then.  _ "He's not smitten out of his mind, correct?"

"Talos, no. He thinks it's logical. For business, he told me," the elderly man glowers. 

_ Is he dealing underground? He doesn't own any part of the meadery or the family farms. Is he more clever than I thought? _

_ Where would I figure out that information?  _

"Well, I'll mention it during dinner," the jarl mutters. "A moment. Galmar?"

The housecarl turns away from Unmid and Nura, walking over while Vulwulf goes to talk to his wife. He leans in and Ulfric murmurs, quiet, "Asgeir might be tapping into the tunnels. We're going to be busy this evening."

"Eugh," Galmar deflates. "If I hate anything more than sewers, it's thieves. And Imperials. Are we doing cloak and dagger?"

"Do I look like a man that would do that?"

"So we're killing them?"

"Just... follow my lead. Don't ask questions and be sharp."

Galmar recoils. "Ulfric, if you think I'm going to let you kill thieves with how-"

"I'm going to  _ threaten  _ them, Galmar. And if they don't listen, then I'll kill them. That's it," the jarl rumbles, irritated, then glances up. "Food's ready."

The housecarl abruptly shifts his attention and walks into the dining room, Ulfric following. Asgeir silently waits beside his brother.  _ He grew a bit. Got a beard.  _

Vulwulf sits, then Ulfric and Galmar. Nura falls just after, urging her sons to be seated as well. "Talos be praised for a fine meal and even finer company," she beams. 

Everyone fills their plates and Galmar and Unmid continue to talk of guards. Nura murmurs something to Asgeir that made the young man visibly anxious and Vulwulf compliments his wife's cooking. She blushes and hides a smile.

_ It's remarkable how long they've been able to stand each other. Most married couples at their age are sleeping in different rooms and hollering at each other every waking moment.  _

"What news comes of your councilmen, Jarl Ulfric?" the older man inquires. Other conversations cease when he responds.

"Brunwulf adopted a son. Wuunferth plans to bring in an official apprentice to replace him. Torbjorn and Torsten's families are well."

"Still quarreling?"

"Surprisingly not. They get their kicks in during councils and leave it at that."

"How fairs Jorleif?" Nura questions. "Is he well?"

Ulfric nods. "I left him as such, but I reckon he'll be right upset once I return."

The housecarl beside him adds, "He doesn't like us leaving."

Unmid comments, "After that Darkwater Crossing incident, I'm not sure I would disagree with him."

The jarl responds neutrally. "Life goes on. I'm not going to cower in the Palace of Kings because of one unfortunate incident that has been dealt with."

Galmar shoots him a look. Nura murmurs, "Do you have a thought of when this war might end?"

Ulfric tilts his head.  _ With Asgeir here, I will not risk my plans being discovered.  _ "If Talos is with me, perhaps soon."

Asgeir remarks on that, breaking his silence. "Is that not what everyone says? Soon. When does soon come? Next week? Maybe next month. Or in the next decade?"

Unmid elbows him, glaring. Nura winces. Galmar states simply, "If there were less folk like you, it would have been over with already."

The youngest son shakes his head, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork. Ulfric pauses. "Asgeir, I hear you have your eyes on a bride."

Expression tensely bland, Asgeir nods. "Vittoria Vici is her name. Cousin to the Emperor. She'd bring in business and help settle folks from war weariness."

Galmar goes bug-eyed whilst Ulfric corrects swiftly, "You mean to say she would aid in family alliances."

"Did... Did I not say that?" the man hesitates, glancing to his father who holds his head in his hands across the table. Nura can't meet him in the eye and Galmar is ready to throw him across the room.

"No. I would not phrase it like that ever again. Overlooking that, however, I would not advise that course of action. You do not know Imperial courts, nor their customs. If you were to aim to marry into them, you would have to do it through a daughter tutored to be able to turn them in your favor."

Asgeir frowns. "I do not see why I could not do it."

Ulfric takes a swig of mead. "You'd bring the downfall of your family. Vittoria doesn't have as much of a hold in nobility as you think she does. Dozens of families are cousins to the Emperor's lineage and she is the third favorite at best. You would need to be cunning and skilled in culture and have a wide reputation to establish true ties, including a title to step into. Otherwise, she's just using you to get the meadery."

"So, you are telling me I cannot do it?"

"You certainly can. Would it be remarkably absurd? Yes. Would it downgrade your position instead of uplifting it? Yes. If you felt like Mara shaped both of you for each other, you could at least do it for personal gain. Otherwise, it's not the right way to gain influence, especially not on the war."

Asgeir stares. "What would be?"

"Owning the meadery. You are in a position to abolish Maven's hold on it only because she thinks you are too young and not bold enough to do it. If you wanted to convince me to get this war over with, the first step would be showing ambition and the ability to decipher good decisions from the bad. What risks to take and which ones to ignore. Prove you are someone to be listened to and folk will hear your words."

"That's... That's dangerous."

Ulfric finds himself not at all hungry and is thankful he did not put much on his plate. "Keep your goals in mind and take it step by step. It is merely a jump into the unknown."

"And that's not frightening?"

Upon Ulfric's silence, Galmar steps in. "Let me bring a few things into the light for you, Asgeir. Your father wants you to join in the fight against the Empire. In doing so, it forces you to either adapt to situations or get killed. Sometimes men get killed anyway. It makes a man learn more than just how to fight. That's not the matter at hand. War boils men down to their core- the worst of the worst and the best of the best. You get to know your strengths and your weaknesses. Neither of which you know, because you have utterly no experience. Which leads to you being hesitant to take risks."

"I have some," Asgeir mutters.

"Experience helps you adapt and plan, brother," Unmid sighs. "You can't do either. They're telling you politely that you're throwing pebbles at steel because you think you can crack it."

Asgeir doesn't talk for the rest of the meal after his brother's words. Ulfric does not speak much either and Vulwulf and Galmar incite most of the conversation. A little too eager, the old man advises Ulfric ought to get a wife by now. Nura adds that she knows women who would be delighted to take his hand in marriage. He voices a minor agreement and leaves it at that.

Just before leaving, Ulfric pulls Asgeir aside and tells the young man that if he needs assistance with getting that meadery, Ulfric is more than willing to lend a hand. 

Guards rounded back up along with a number more than they started with, the jarl makes way to complete his least favorite task of the day: the Thieves Guild.

It takes fifteen minutes to find their little rat hole.  _ Fifteen. _ He'd spent more time coughing in his life than that. Hidden out in a cleared part of the sewers underneath Riften, they disperse like bugs when Galmar comes storming in, soldiers not moments behind. 

None startle at swordpoint. A red-headed thief is the first to speak. "You... You lads wouldn't mind coming to a deal, would you?"

The housecarl shows off his usual state of pissed off __ particularly well. "Get me your leader and then you can talk."

"Oh, it's me," the man lies through his teeth. 

Tess calls from a hallway she'd broken off to search, "Hey! This pantry ain't a pantry!"

It leads them to the main cistern of the guild where another group of criminals scatters. A Breton of all folk attempts to scare them off moments after Ulfric had called off a warning, seated at a desk and annoyed.

He slumps dead, Ulfric's axe in his forehead not seconds after. "Anyone else?" he calls. He's met with thick silence. "Good. I'd assume that was your lead. Who's next in line?"

The redhead from before steps forward warily. A woman with white hair tries to pull him back, cursing at him, and a bald man slaps a hand over her mouth. 

He's not composed. His hands shake, only partially raised. "That'd be me, I suppose. Brynjolf. Who... Who would you be, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Doesn't matter. I have a few tasks for you and your folk. If you get it done, I can pardon history and get them on their feet. If not, this never happened. Refuse and you get what your Guildmaster did."

The man nods, accent curling.  _ He's from the Reach.  _ "What tasks?"

Galmar slips a piece of paper from his breast pocket into his fingertips and offers it to the thief. After reading it, the thief consults the white-haired woman and the bald man.

"When do you want 'em done?"

"By next week, no earlier."

"And your contact?"

"Read the paper again."

"Holy shit."

The woman behind him tries to steal the parchment, then yells with clear fury, "Are you fucking kidding me? You're  _ that  _ Stormcloak? I can kill him easy, Bryn!"

"Vex!"

"Fuck you, Delvin! He's killed Mercer and you want me to stand here?"

Somewhere, a soldier murmurs, "Can we take her with as a hostage?"

As the woman turns to strangle the bald man, screaming her head off, Galmar comments, "Any takers?"

Tess grins, ear to ear. "Yes, please. I'll be in her company any day."

Worst of all, a murmur of agreement goes through the unit. "She's plucky," comes a muffled snicker from Ralof, resulting in a violent stare from his housecarl. 

In the forested depths of the border to Markarth from Falkreath, a woman sits alone on a cliff at this very same time, watching the moons in the sky. A fire long since burnt out flickers with dim orange light from its embers behind her, along with a bedroll, a traveling back, and a sheathed greatsword.

"You wrote," airs the soft murmur from the approaching traveler. The sellsword nods, head turning to glance over her shoulder. It reveals a jagged, deep, and thick scar that runs from her left eye down to her mouth. 

"I remember you gave me an offer," the younger woman states as the wanderer sits down beside her, legs folded in. She sets down a bag and lowers her hood.

"I did," she answers. "But it did not come without a cost."

Clear blue eyes harden. "You know after what I've done I can't go back."

"You still have a chance," the robed woman utters. "Could settle down with someone. Pretend this mess never happened. Live your days out."

"Are you serious?" comes the scoff.

"They think you are dead, girl," the mage snaps. "They won't chase you as long as you don't get recognized. They do not hunt your every move. You do not know what it means to be on the run. Take the life I cannot. Be happy- settle down. Find a home. Breathe."

"You would want to be tied down? Washing linens all day and cleaning and cooking?"

"I would not make someone else bear my burden. But by the gods, girl, if you can get away, go. Forget about me. Forget about everything. Just find a home and be happy. Doesn't matter what I want. Never has, never will. Do what you crave, for yourself. If things get tough, call upon me again and we will have this same talk. Otherwise, goodbye."

The traveler stands with her bag in hand, expression unreadable, and the young woman cries, "Wait! Please!"

But the wanderer is already gone, and Lilija is left in strangling silence. 

_ Where am I supposed to go? I have lost it all- my family, my friends, my home. If I had known freedom would come at such a cost, I would not have wanted it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment on any errors, weird sentences, or the like!
> 
> How are we feeling about this chapter? It was a lot of dialogue and Ulfric interacting with people- not a lot of intense action, just buildup. I'm not happy with it, but that sums up this year. 
> 
> Also, poor Ulfric. He keeps making children cry.
> 
> Any predictions for the next chapter?


	6. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "First day here and you're already late!"

Jorleif's patience was being devoured alive. 

He couldn't keep up with the paperwork and correspondence like his jarl, who'd fly through a stack of parchment in an hour with scarcely a glance at the lawbooks. Ulfric was effective, quick, and brutally so. He did things with absolute confidence and rarely made mistakes. When he did, the jarl would fix it in moments, unbothered. Jorleif couldn't do that. He'd feel guilty for a single mistake for weeks.

He wasn't great at handling too many things at once, either. When Jorleif got stressed, he made mistakes and then overcorrected them to only make more. He couldn't keep a clear head and sort things out. He got overwhelmed.

When Ulfric had been caught at Darkwater Crossing and Jorleif had to hold down the Palace of Kings for a week, he was able to do it. Galmar was there to kick him into shape and keep Yrsarald in good spirits, resulting in everyone's benefit. There was still someone able to ensure everything was running smoothly.

Now, he was the one trying to keep everyone organized, do his duties, and keep everyone efficient. But he was a single man, doing the work of five. With the Eastmarch general falling behind, Jorleif losing his mind, and the dark elves beginning to yell up a fuss in the grey quarter, Windhelm was three hours away from breaking into all-out chaos.

So, Jorleif did what Ulfric would do. Talk it out with meetings.

Prepared citizen meetings were stressful as they were, and Jorleif had only been scheduling them. Unplaned ones (out of fierce demand from the Grey Quarter) were the stick that broke his back. He was, in fact,  _ not  _ Jarl Ulfric, and was unable to do what that great nut of a man could. Jorleif was beginning to realize that the Jarl of Eastmarch had a lot more patience than he had thought. 

Not only that, but it seemed Ulfric was more socially astute than he let on.

The first council was with Torbjorn. Of  _ course,  _ it had to be Torbjorn, who took advantage of every little thing he could do to make other people's lives worse. Jorleif got all the questions that Ulfric could somehow shut down, and was continually battered into a corner.

When will the jarl be back? You're not doing a very good job, Jorleif. Do I need to help you? When are my shipments going to be approved? I have fifty men waiting, three ships heading to port, and four more that are coming next month. I can't afford a back-up. The waters are beginning to freeze over. Jorleif, can you  _ please  _ get that damn court mage back in his right mind! My daughter, near a mage! Is Elda starting a meadery? Why isn't she asking me for help? Steward, you must bring attention to her.

Talos help him, Jorleif was nearly in tears by the end of it. He had five minutes before the next meeting and had to ask for Yrsarald to come and help him less he flees from Windhelm. 

Malthyr Elenil, a helping man at the New Gnsis Cornerclub, was the next to enter. He had a small delivery of mead that he hadn't gotten from Whiterun. Jorleif's first thought was putting the city guard on it, but they were spread extremely thin as it was. None of them were getting more than five hours of sleep and the guard captain was pleading for even a single man. Anyone.

But Jorleif couldn't just turn the elf away! He had been kind enough, if not a little rude, and it was his job as steward to fix this problem! He would be failing Ulfric if he couldn't get it resolved!

Yrsarald then stepped in. "I can send word to all the couriers and get the word out to travelers about this, but otherwise, we can't do much. Being it's a land shipment and the shipment originates out of our borders, we are unable to trace it without getting a walloping from Jarl Balgruuf."

"I'm dearly sorry, Malthyr. If you could come back to meet with me in a few months, perhaps we could sort out a replacement delivery on water. We'd have more control over it," Jorleif had said, relieved Yrsarald was able to find another solution but still feeling horrible for turning the fellow away.

The elf lowers his head, murmuring, "I can't say I didn't expect this," and leaves.

The steward can't stand the feeling of ruining someone's day as he'd just done and it weighs on him as the next council starts. It goes a little better, and so do the next handful after, but every person is met with a vague answer similar to Malthyr. All Jorleif can do is assure them he's doing the best he can and promise the jarl will be back soon.

Then Ambarys, owner of an inn in the Grey Quarter, comes and stomps on Jorleif's already beaten resolve. 

"I need an extension for payments," the innkeeper declares. 

Yrsarald is a dear and fetches Ulfric's notes on Ambrays' record. Jorleif feels a great dread settle itself in his stomach as he reads:

_ Seven months behind, three extensions. Taxes exempt. 196 septims in debt.  _

_ No more extensions after this. The owner has to start paying back or he's gone. _

_ Lot cost is 10,080 with tax. The monthly payment is 28 septims, with the yearly cost at 336. Based on the average thirty-year payment option, chosen by the holder. Fifteen years in. _

A month of missing a payment comes with a warning and a slight increase in tax in the next payment, but  _ seven months  _ behind with numerous extensions and tax exemption is recklessly generous. Jorlief hadn't seen Ulfric be so lenient with lot owners in the history of his entire jarlship. He knew for certain that his father had never been and Ulfric generally was alike Hoag.

Perhaps it was the years of payments before this? Maybe Ulfric just wanted the elf to be quiet. Jorleif didn't know.

Either way, it meant that Jorleif had to kick Ambrays out of his inn. At this point, he's been living free for nearly a year.

Jorleif tries to put it as nicely as he can. "Well," he swallows, "Ambarys, you are seven months behind your payments. I... I hate to do this, but I can't give you another pardon. I'm so sorry."

"What?" the elf had snapped. "I've been paying this off for fifteen years, and you Nords just leave me to rot?"

"Ambarys, the standard city law is to evict anyone over five months behind on payments. Financially, it is next to impossible for you to get back on track with what you are currently earning."

"That's a load of cow shit. You whoreson Nords don't-"

Yrsarald had come to Jorleif's aid, warning, "Watch your tongue. You can be as angry as you want, but that doesn't condone talk like that. If Jarl Ulfric were here, you'd be getting escorted out of the city already. Even if your kind is familiar with fire, it does no one good to play with it."

The elf snarls. "Ever since that fool took over things have only gotten worse for us. It's not my fault that I can't pay to stay in my own damn home. I can't get deliveries because of your war!"

"It's gotten worse for  _ everyone,  _ Rendar, and it isn't Ulfric's fault. Wars take every coin you have and more that you don't. It's even worse when you're going against the Empire. He's got everything spread thin. Get a job, move in with someone, and make things work. We Nords are fighting to survive just as hard as your folk," the general bites in return.

Ambarys bristles with fury, red eyes burning. "Like you would understand, huh? You got it easy. The nobles in this city aren't having a single problem, and Ulfric's got a world of riches he's spending and ignoring all the people that need it, I'd bet. You don't care for me and my kind, so don't pretend you do. We don't even have guards patrolling our streets!"

"Gods be blessed, Ambarys, please. We can be civil," Jorleif urges.

"Civil? You want me to be civil? How about you start paying my people the coin we need? How about you start-"

"Damnit, Ambarys, we don't even have the coin to keep this place going! Just last year we closed down two wings of the palace, and four more the year before that! Do you know how many wings the Palace of kings has? Fifteen! Do you know how many are open? Three! Three, Ambarys! Do you know how many people I had to unemploy because we couldn't afford to keep them? Don't you talk to me about what your people deserve while you shun every opportunity you have to help them!" Jorleif yells, face going red with frustration.

He continues. "You take all the business that Elda could be having and bring on the plight of twenty folks who work twice as hard as you do because you can't get what you want! Anytime someone tries to talk to you about it, it's an insult because you're an elf and can do no wrong! Good gods, I have yelled at my jarl for you and your people to improve your lives and I get nothing but scorn in return!"

"Jorleif, breathe," the general quiets.

The steward halts then shakes his head, expression tight. He can barely form a polite dismissal.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot help you further. Guards, get the inn closed down and take back the keys. Board it up. May the gods be kind and allow you to buy it back once things lighten up, Ambarys. Good day," Jorleif says shortly before the elf storms out, slamming the door behind him.

The room hangs in silence, Yrsarald lost for words and Jorleif struggling to hold himself together with a persistent emptiness in his chest tormenting him. He covers his face with his unsteady hands, trying to calm himself. 

_ Silda, how am I to do this without you?  _

Not seconds later, Yrsarald leans down to throw an arm about his shoulder, murmuring, "Peace, Jorleif. Ulfric will be back soon to sort this mayhem out. You can holler at him and we can laugh about it over cards. It'll be alright. That elf gets on everyone's nerves."

"I hadn't meant to yell at him."

The general stands then inclines on the desk, facing the steward. "Well, he got what was coming to him, talking to you like that. You've done everything you can to help, Jorleif, but some people just can't change. Don't beat yourself over it. You're very kind and this work isn't."

The steward snorts bitterly, hands lowering from his face as he looks down. "I don't know how Ulfric can do this."

"Well, he yells at people a fair amount. Or did, I suppose. All I know is that he's used to being screamed at and got the shit kicked out of him enough to stop taking things to heart. Ulfric does well in this stuff, yeah, but I certainly don't want you to be like Ulfric. I don't think Nirn could handle another Ulfric, in seventeen different ways. He's a lot."

That incites a laugh from them both. "I shiver to think of it," Jorleif jokes. "The Empire would be quivering."

"The ladies too. Just... not like that."

Jorleif chuckles. "No wonder why you can't win one over, stuttering like that."

"Hey!" the warrior defends sharply, "I didn't stutter!"

"Of course. Bring in the next one," the steward calls, then mutters under his breath, "and don't make it another elf."

"Last one," a guard declares.

The gods headed his pleas, for a notably tall, robed woman gets escorted in. With brown hair tucked into her clothing and a pack strewn over her shoulders, along with a thick shawl, Jorleif doesn't recognize her.  _ Who is this one? _

With a simple, friendly smile, she speaks. "Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Ylsmerea- at your service. I am the court mage's apprentice," she does a quick bow. "It's an honor to see you again, General Yrsarald."

They both startle at her decorum. Yrsarald is the first to respond, turning around. His face hardens. "You again? Go on, then, mage. Sit."

Jorleif glances at him sharply. "Don't mind the general. I am Jorleif, steward of Windhelm. It's a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Apperentince Ylsmerea. Do sit," he turns his attention back to the woman, favoring a cordial tone.

She does, setting down her old and worn but shining leather bag on her lap. "The pleasure is all mine," she responds smoothly, rustling through her bag momentarily. She brings out a slip of parchment, then sets it down on the desk, depositing the bag on the floor. "I'll not waste your time, so let me be brief: I do not know if Wuunferth informed you all, but I am to see to the jarl's medical intricacies. I was hoping to see your thoughts on an official agreement I will propose to him."

"Your thought is appreciated, Apprentice. Few other mages have set forth such a show of good faith," Jorleif remarks, taking the piece of paper she had set in front of him. He opens it, scans the neatly written words, then passes it to Yrsarald. "Tell me what you reason for this, Yrsarald. Ylsmerea, I would like to give you some insight about Jarl Ulfric, being as I'm sure the task ahead is intimidating."

She chuckles, back straight and ankles crossed.  _ Talos, I feel as if I've forgotten my manners. Good on you, Wuunferth, to find such an orderly mage. _ "A little, but what good ever comes from something easy?"

"That is the spirit. Currently, he is on leave for Riften. He left a week ago, and until he comes back, you will be following my orders. He will return within days. Consider yourself lucky that he is not here."

"Steward Jorleif, I will freely assist you. Call upon me whenever you have need. Though, I sense you speak as if I would not have been welcome had the jarl been here," she states, expression shifting into a reserved attentiveness.

_ She seems of a good sort, but that alone won't keep her on her feet here.  _ "Welcome would be too kind of a word. You would have been greeted and then ignored."

"I see," she responds. "Rest assured, that is something I am familiar with but you have my thanks for the warning. Is it of personal dislike for mages or just new folk?"

"Both. You being a woman does not help."

She laughs at that. "Even better," she smiles, her voice strong yet elegant. It holds an air that reminds Jorleif of how Tova, wife to Torbjorn, pronounces things. Both cutting and delicate, but the mage has an underlying conviction in everything she says, not dissimilar to his Silda. 

Jorleif tentatively decides he likes her. "The jarl is... dense. Most ladies that come by with fierce beliefs tend to clash rather hard with him. If he's wrong in something, getting hostile will result in him doing the same."

"Reasonable if approached calmly, I assume?" she guesses.

"As long as he is not already in a foul mood, yes. I do not know if Wuunferth spoke of his aversion to magic with you, but even the smell of it can trouble him. I recommend keeping your distance when you near him," as he says this, he realizes he cannot smell the normal smell that mages have around her. It's a sharp, sweet, and potent scent, like a deathbell. 

She nods. "I have some canceling spirits I use that remedy that."

It is then that Yrsarald looks up. "I can attest to that. She did well in the Winterhold battle, saved a lot of men, used a lot of magic. Couldn't smell any of it, now that I think about it. Anyway, this agreement looks good, but I would run it by Stone-Fist when he gets back. He'll have something to add to draw you short, I'm sure."

"Greyed and tempered like a saber with cubs?" she questions, grinning as he hands her back the paper.

"You got him. In truth, mage, with the stunt you pulled after that battle, I think he'll hear you out. He talks a lot of dirt and can back it up, but he's no fool. You've got skill with your healing and you can keep men calm. People like you change minds about magic and if you get Ulfric regard, I think you'll find life a lot easier for your kind."

Ylsmerea's lips tip upwards. "Your words flatter me. Thank you, General."

"Don't... Don't go bragging about me saying that, though. Not that you would, but I'd like to keep my reputation."

She laughs gingerly at his hesitance. "Of course."

Jorleif blinks. "Well, I'll be sure to mention you helped out at Winterhold to Jarl Ulfric. Get more good words in for you after my blunder."

Yrsarald shakes his head, wincing. "You might make it worse. I'll tell him."

"Thank you. Speaking of the jarl, though, I figure I should give you a few pointers on how to deal with him and what to avoid," Jorleif continues.

"You'll be talking for hours if you tell her what to avoid. I'll keep it simple: don't ask anything about his family, his life, or how he feels. Anything personal is a bad idea. You're too new," Yrsarald interrupts pointedly. "Keep it rigidly formal."

_ It's a wonder she hasn't run off yet. What is she wanting to gain from being in this court, I wonder? Perhaps an easy life, once she secures her spot. I hope she is well-meaning. _

The woman breathes out a soft sigh. "Charming," she murmurs.

Jorleif winces. "Ulfric is focused on the war and his duties as jarl. He has to be fairly private, but because he is a rather solitary man, it adds up to him being exceptionally distant. If you irritate him or he does not want to talk, he'll make it clear. If he's just in a bad mood, he'll snap at you right away. If you can't tell how he's taking the conversion, the rule of thumb is that it's well."

"He's stoic," Yrsarald comments. "I always think he's angry at me but he doesn't- I suppose, express things. I can laugh or give someone a look and you can tell how I feel. Ulfric doesn't-"

"He's overly detached," Jorleif helps. "The man has a wicked demeanor but in conversation, he's indifferent. It doesn't mean he's not listening, he just doesn't react unless it's something offensive or hard to believe."

"Similar to Galmar, but more reserved and with notably severe wrath," the mage concludes.

"Exactly so," Yrsarald agrees. A pause resonates in the room and the steward claims it.

"Just to be cautious, I'll run through proper decorum with you, Apprentice Ylsmerea. Anytime I, one of the generals, or the jarl enter a room with you for the first time in the day, greet us with our titles. For meals, you are allowed to be seated, but everyone waits for Jarl Ulfric's arrival to set plates unless he's busy, in which it will be up to one of the inner council to call the meal. You'll be seated to the left of Wuunferth. You cannot leave the table unless permitted by the jarl, being as you will be among the nobility. Soldiers and guards do not have to adhere to this," Jorleif lectures.

She dips her head. "Of course. I assume old traditions are always welcome?"

Yrsarald tilts his head. "On rowdy occasions, yes. Sometimes there are a few fights among the men. At the high table, it rarely occurs, sparing for the monthly councils."

"And is the mother tongue used only for ceremony?"

"It's often used in casual conversation," Jorleif answers. " _ You speak it? _ "

" _ As a bird chirps. _ " 

He smiles. "It is always good to hear. Jarl Ulfric rarely uses it, save for curses."

The mage laughs merrily at that. "There are no shortages of them in Nordic."

The general's eyes brighten and he abruptly lightens. "Oh! Jorleif, move back."

The steward sends him a watchful look. "What do you want?"

"I want to show her the broken quills."

"They're in that bin," Jorleif directs, throwing a hand behind his right shoulder. The general moves to grab it, popping off the lid and displaying it proudly to the mage after a quick walk to her.

"He's broken all of these in the past year," he says, not dissimilar to a boy showing off some minor accomplishment that he holds irrationally dear.

She wheezes, amused but bewildered. "How?"

"Whenever something sparks his ire and he's got a quill in his hand, he snaps it. Done it for years, but he's been rather ruthless with them lately," Jorleif answers, smiling. "I've made him break plenty."

"So, if I talk to him while he's working, I can tell when I've annoyed him," the woman inclines her head, a coy smile lining her face. She tilts her shoulders with the action.

"Depends. If he has a small bit of paperwork that you can see, I would avoid trying it. If he's got a pile going, try."

"Enough about him, though. What about you, mage? We know enough about the jarl to choke a horse. You are a mystery. Tell me about yourself," Yrsarald asserts dramatically.

"Well, I've been traveling all my life," she begins after a short pause. "Met all kinds of people. I was a commissioned bard for a few years. I've laid stone, trained under a steward, even was a courier for a bit. Those were the fun ones, at least. Then, I got my master's in restoration, became a member of the College of Winterhold after, traveled as a healer for people who needed me, and here I am."

Jorleif's brows raise. "You've got quite the history. It's thankless work, healing folk."

"Wait, wait, wait," Yrsarald mutters, "we're not going to overlook that first one. You're a bard?"

She cringes. "Depends on if you like them or not."

"Well, are you any good?"

"I mean, I was scarcely sixteen."

"Alright, fine. We're overlooking it. What about the jobs you didn't like?" he pushes.

"I helped maintain an archive. I was a chef's underling for a bit. I could drone on for hours, to tell the truth. I've seen nearly all walks of life."

Jorleif comments, "Wuunferth remarked something similar. Are you familiar with court etiquette?"

"Rusty, but I know when I have to speak, when I can choose to, and when I cannot," she says. 

"Thank Talos. I hope my lecture didn't bother you, but I can't tell you how many young apprentices have gotten a boot in the ankle because they didn't greet someone."

Her lips raise gently. "I've made the mistake in presences higher than jarls. I'm quite capable of talking my way out now. Have no fear."

Before Jorleif can think about that comment, a guard on duty mentions, "Steward Jorleif, I believe it's nearly dinner."

The man's brows raise. "Truly? I hadn't even noticed," he stands from his chair and twists his torso. He offers, "Ylsmerea, was it? You are welcome to eat with us."

"Oh, thank you!" she beams, her intense focus wiped away in moments.  _ Strange. _

Once she gets her bag on her back, they leave for the throne hall to have a comfortable, easy dinner. Jorleif enjoys her presence, being as she distracts everyone with her attentive chatting. She holds herself well and were she not a mage, Jorleif would be writing marriage arrangement papers to send to the jarl. She has an air about her that is dependable and is blessed with fair features beneath her travel weariness.

_ Talos, let her make it into the court. If not for the jarl, then for my sanity. _

Ylsmerea realized she liked the dark-blond haired general more than she'd thought. First impressions made her think General Yrsarald was no different than any other stiff higher-up, but he turned out to be quite entertaining. His beard was even trimmed now. 

He stood a few finger widths shorter than her and didn't seem to care, which certainly did him favors. She often got attention for her stature and usually, it brought trouble. The steward was nearly her height but also fell below. Jorleif also had a fierce mustache to pair with his considerate nature.

_ The pair will be my anchor points in Windhelm, it seems. If I can win them over, along with General Stone-Fist, I'll have all the sway I need to get this jarl to let me treat him. Hopefully. Wuunferth's words haven't been great. _

Dinner was enjoyable. Wuunferth begrudgingly passed along platters of food and she picked a bit of what looked good and ate it, ignoring the older mage when he tried to force her to eat more. The others in attendance of the meal were more important than the meal itself, in her opinion. 

She met the guard captain, Avgorne, and his sons, Bjorne and Vorne. An entertaining group, they were, with their quiet banter and Bjorne's violent blushing and stuttering whenever she spoke to him. 

Then, she met a councilman: Brunwulf Free-Winter. He had a woman with him, Elda, who ran the Candlehearth inn and their adopted son, Arvid. To say she got along well with the three was a severe understatement- she was nearly a part of the family by the time dinner was over. 

She offered each one of them help. First, Brunwulf, with a matter one of the dark elves had encountered. Then, Ylsmerea pledged to invite a brewer she knew from Kynesgrove to assist the innkeeper with her meadery adventures. Lastly came the son, who desperately wanted to learn a little bit of magic.

After ensuring both parents were in agreement, the mage told the boy that tomorrow afternoon she would find him and teach him a few harmless spells. She was able to learn more about the other members of the jarl's council, namely the Shatter-Shield family and the Cruel-Seas in turn for her freely given aid. 

Irritatingly, Wuunferth had compromised relations with the head of the Shatter-Shield clan by forcing a housing adjustment. She'd remedy it quick enough with some errands, but it was still bothersome.

When the meal ended, she said her polite farewells to all in attendance and a maid ( _ Fina, was her name _ ) escorted her to a guest-chamber nearby Wuunferth's room. The young woman showed her how to run the water taps and how to request a servant. Along with that, in the girl's happy chitter, she told Ylsa of the seamstress in town. 

_ Perhaps my ware does not look nice. It is comfortable, though. I'll not order new things just yet- I'm not sure I'll be able to stay here. _

Disregarding that thought, Ylsa was overly enthused to take a bath and sleep on a bed. How she missed such indulgences! 

Undressing in the bathroom was admittedly a little cold, as she was not able to throw off all of her layers as quickly as one would imagine. Light leathers were strapped to various parts of her body for added security. She'd broken many, many bones in her life, and some had never healed back properly. A stiff leather brace ensured everything was in order and wouldn't go out of place or hurt when she moved a particular way.

Once the cloth and leather were off, she ripped off her boots and trousers, the faucet still glugging along behind her. Then came an old corset, which she deftly untied and felt rather odd without.  _ Gods, I wish I'd never taken on that damned job. Imagine, not having to wear this silly stay for the rest of my life. Be that as it may, it is better than being paralyzed. _

Releasing a gentle sigh, she stretches her body, wincing at a few of the more painful pops that come with the motion. She wastes no time in slipping out of her now loose undertunic and dipping into the water.  _ Blessed Mara, I could swoon! _

Giddy, she shuts the water off with a hard twist of the handle and lays down. The water is a blanket of heat, even more so than what she is used to; a man's body. It hits all the right spots without erring and eases the aches in her muscles, ones she hadn't realized she had been feeling. It is comforting. 

The sentiment sits rigidly. Upon instinct reaction, her mind begins to whirl with a stream of adrenaline, perceiving the feeling of ease to be a threat. Within moments, her senses sharpen, and her heart patters like a quick drum beat. Everything is too warm. Her legs tense, as if ready to start sprinting.

She closes her eyes, swallows, and takes measured breaths until she can numb the frenzy of panic. Hazed, she washes with soap, rinses her long locks, and drains the water. Time passes swiftly between moments of her mental state being entirely void and hyper-awareness.

Barely able to keep control over her breathing. Ylsa wraps her shivering body into a thick weave of absorbent fabric after rubbing her skin dry and throws up her hair in another. Silent, she restocks the wood in the hearth and promptly walks to the bed placed diagonally in a corner.

She flips over a corner of the quilt, slips underneath it, and slams her head against the headboard of the bed. A curse leaves her mouth as she cradles her skull, eyes clenched shut.

After the pain dulls into a soft throb, she hides under the quilt with hot wetness flowing down her cheeks, falling into a mindless slumber in minutes that are too long.

_ Thud-thud-thud.  _

"Young woman, open this door this instant!" comes a loud, hoarse voice of an elderly man.  _ Thud-thud-thud  _ goes his hand against the hardwood once more, following with another yell. "Do not make me say it again!"

A frazzled Ylsmerea tumbles out of bed, nude. She runs to the door, unlocking it and cracking it open, breathing a despairing, "Yes?"

She looks a mess, with only her head peeking out of the door. The old mage scowls, his white, long beard covering half of his lips. "It is dawn! Breakfast is served in two hours and I'll need you for both of them. First day here and you're already late!"

"Apologies. One- one moment," she stumbles, closing the door and locking it behind her before sprinting into the bathroom, bumps raised all along her skin.

As she rushes to dress, she twists herself and realizes her falling asleep without her all her braces on was a poor choice. Her back is the worst pain of them all, fierce and unrelenting with her every move.  _ Something must have popped out of place. Curse it all! _

But despite her strain, she is standing in the doorway of the court mage's room three minutes later, brown hair still half-wet and hanging limply to her middle back. Bright green eyes wince at the light in the room.

"You look as if you've been dragged from a bear's den. Fix that mess of hair into a braid before you start even thinking about going near my alchemy table, Ylsmerea."

Embarrassed by her tardiness and poor appearance, she murmurs, "I don't know how to plait."

The mage stares at her, soundless and judging. Slowly, he sets down the papers in his hand and beckons her over with a wrinkled, slim hand that is discolored from the veins under it. She enters, moving to walk in front of him.

"You are a Nordic woman, a warrior in your growing years, and you tell me you do not know how to braid?"

Her expression is stiff. "I had cut all my hair off."

"You  _ cut  _ all your hair off? To the scalp? Ylsmerea, why would you do such a thing?" he hisses, not out of anger but upset. His tone is grounding. "Gods blessed, girl, just how poorly have you been treated, to have shorn your hair! And you tell me you can deal with the jarl? No, no, no, this will not do! Korin, get Odena!" the elderly man orders, picking on a poor young guard.

Startled, he hustles off, nearly tripping in his haste. The mage mutters insults about the boy and Ylsmerea rubs her eyes, sighing, "Wuunferth, please, I don't need-"

"Don't even try, woman. If you're going to be attending Jarl Ulfric you need more than just a veil of civility. He'll cut right through it and boil your patience right out of you. Introducing you to Odena can only swing in your aid, so long as you don't show anyone what you are truly capable of. She can give you the hard truth of things, and she knows what you can use in your favor. You adore breaking tradition, but you must adhere to it. The old testimonies favor unmarried, childless women of status more than men."

The younger mage huffs her disagreement. "And you think forcing a man like who you've described into obeying me is a reasonable idea?"

"His resolve is exhausted. He is  _ fading,  _ Ylsmerea. I will go to any lengths necessary to keep him from an untimely end, no matter what he will do in return. His father left him in my care. Do you know what that man would do to me if I failed at this? If you failed? There is no other choice but to force him into your hands. I will give you every damn resource I have, girl. You would do wisely to not waste them if you aim for nobility."

The brunette's face contracts. "You hadn't told me that his state was so poor," she pauses. "Why is he out of the hold?"

"Because no one had the dirt to tell him otherwise! Everyone is run ragged as it is, and he had his mind fixed on it. Not a soul has the energy and the conviction to make him listen anymore. Galmar and Jorleif have lost their grasp on him long ago and Yrsarald has been beaten into muteness with his pain over the deaths of his men. And I smell of too much magic to even approach him," Wuunferth tirades in frustration, moving to hover over his glowing enchantment table in the middle of the room.

"Wuunferth, be at ease. I can handle this."

"I sure hope."

Coming into the well-lit room is an older woman with whiting hair and a face creased with smile lines. She looks anything but kind the moment they lock eyes.

_ This must be Odena.  _ The older woman wears a pristine uniform and apron, a large satchel attached to her hip. A blue embroidered headscarf sits upon her head, fastened perfectly. 

She assesses Ylsmerea like a predator deciding the fate of its prey as she speaks. "Good morning, Wuunferth. Who would this be?"

The bearded, robed man dips his head. "Why, it is my apprentice, Odena."

"She looks like a stray, so crudely dressed. Did you pick her off the street?"

_ Good gods, I am a lamb to the slaughter. She follows tradition. _

Wuunferth glances at Ylsmerea then shrugs. "I'd say she wandered in."

Odena walks closer, expression sour as she prods at the mage, pinching her cheek and grabbing her hair and gripping her wrists. "She needs to get plumped up for winter. A breeze could knock her over and her locks are dull," the maid mutters, inspecting her hands and then crying, "Mara forbid, she's unwed!"

"Ylsa is nearly forty," the man supplies, inspecting the stand in front of him with a keen eye.  _ Why, thank you for making it worse, Wuunferth! _

"And barren, with it! A madwoman, you are, to be wandering about without a husband at your age! And your hair, loose? By the nine! I cannot allow this nonsense in the jarl's halls," the maid seethes, picking up a chair from a desk in the room and planting it in front of Ylsmerea, who quickly sits in order to not be barked at. The older woman tugs all of her hair into a bunch and moves it about, muttering to herself.

The sound of a brush running through her hair makes the mage cringe.  _ This woman is frightful! And where did she even get a brush? Does she carry one around with her, to harass all other women? Perhaps I do not follow a woman's traditional wear, but to force it upon me to do so? Gods! _

Within what seems like a few moments, Ylsa's head is being tugged backward and her scalp pulled off her head as the maid plaits it, still insulting her brutally. 

_ I wonder if she would faint if I told her it was dyed.  _

"Are my roots growing out, miss? I'd hate to have to color them again. I just redid them last month," Ylsmerea states, tone light and airy. The maid halts, going silent.

The mage tilts her head over her shoulder to see the woman pale-faced in complete horror. Wuunferth chuckles. "Now you've done it."

"You've- you've dyed your hair to this color? Are you ashamed of your heritage? Are you-"

"Calm, fair Odena. My natural color has caused too many eyes to stare and none too few to approach me and start trouble. I do not wish for the attention, as grateful as I am to have it. Light colors draw threats to me."

"How light is your blond, to draw such commotion?" Odena utters, continuing her styling. 

"Nearly white."

A scoff leaves the woman. "To be blessed with such a color and to hide it! Gods, you are more absurd than I thought."

"Odena, are you free to take her to the seamstress after the morning's meal?" Wuunferth questions. "She cannot look like she does in front of the jarl."

_ Don't I feel pretty. _

The maid nods. "Yes, yes, I'll do it. Get you in fine dresses instead of-oh, Mara, I feel ill at the thought- men's trousers!"

"Formal wear along with field wear. Take her to the blacksmith as well," the court mage adds.

Odena disapproves. "She must go on the field? That is-"

"She is the most talented healer I have seen, Odena. Saving the lives of men is well and good, but she can't do it if she's locked up in her or dead from an arrow."

The maid puffs out, "Perhaps, but she'd be much better staying. I'll have to find her a husband in short order, you know. She's likely already sterile."

Wuunferth raises his brows. "That is a rather cruel thing to say, do you not think?"

Odena pauses, seeming to deflate. She then murmurs, quiet, "I'm doing it again, aren't I."

"Indeed. Perhaps you would do well to apologize to Ylsmerea. She's been here for but a night."

"Oh, Mara, forgive me. I'm horribly sorry for my words, Ylsmerea," the maid sighs. "I mean little of it. I worry for women like you, alone. There's terrible folk out there."

_ Odena has a nasty habit of fretting like an old woman but clearly does not mean to do so. I'll remember that.  _ "It is alright. Far worse has been said to me, and you come from a mind of concern," Ylsa smiles, cheeky. "Then too, with all of Wuunferth's esteem, I may have needed someone to scold me into my place."

"You are just a dear, aren't you. A man would pay a hefty dowry for such tenderness," the maid sighs wistfully.  _ Ah, yes, the customs of yore, bribing a woman to marry. I'll not last a year eligible, I think. I'd get hitched just to make this woman quiet. _ "Wuunferth, I heard she would be treating the jarl, as well. Is that true?"

"It is."

Odena gasps. "Ylsmerea!"

"Yeah?" the mage questions.

"Oh, gods, I don't have enough time to get everything commissioned! Wuunferth, the-

The elderly man chuckles. "I've no use for all the coin I have, Odena."

Ylsmerea feels her stomach twist at the statement and a feeling of unease beginning to rest on her shoulders. "I'll pay for it," she declares.

"Apprentice, he is being more than charitable. Do you know how much clothing costs?" the maid chides. "Forget your pride and be appreciative."

The mage shifts in her wooden chair, glancing to Wuunferth, who eyes her sharply. Her lips fold. "My coin will account for half the price."

"I'll suppose I will allow it," the bearded man laments. "Don't blame me for the number in your coffers after, though," he grumbles under his breath. Odena rolls her eyes, still having a death-grip on Ylsmerea's hair as she interweaves it.

After several minutes of the two residents chatting, the maid's hold loosens and she sighs. "Well, it will have to do. When we go to the market, Ylsmerea, remind me to get hairpins. You'll have to pick out bath scents and scarves. Do you have a proper cloak?"

"I do not."

"With no fat on those bones, you'll freeze without one. Didn't your mother ever tell you?" Odena fusses gently, moving to lean in front of the younger woman who stills at the hand on her face. "Gods, your cheeks are sunken. One too many days without food and you would be gone. Oh, pray me, don't say you have Wastings. My Stone-Fist fights with it too, you know. It's a terrible thing to bear."

The older man's expression shows only concern, her words soft and tender. Her face is glowing and healthy, making Ylsmerea oddly remember the folk of Winterhold. They were worn to the bone. 

She thinks of Kodlak, with his worsening conditions and the gauntness of his face. And then of General Kai, that sweet lad, speaking in desolate tones of the men that were lost at the Winterhold battle.  _ Wastings. One of those that died had barely been able to bring himself to eat or drink for weeks. Kai called it Wastings because whoever had it would waste away, starve themself to death. _

_ But Stone-Fist, as in General Stone-Fist? Or his drunkard brother at the inn?  _

Ylsmerea inhales a sharp breath. "Oh no, Odena, I am quite alright. I've simply been traveling for so long that I find it hard to realize when I am hungry. Being there are set meal times here, I'll be eating just fine. Thank you for your care."

Odena's eyes narrow and again comes that intense look of judgment. "Don't you go and lie to me, now. If my girls don't see you at the table for every meal I'll find you and drag you there myself. Understand?"

"I understand," the mage agrees.

"You'd best. I'll be off and catch you right after breakfast. Good day!" the maid proclaims, walking out with a mutter of, "Gods, look at the time. I'm behind."

Silence hangs in the room for a few moments as Ylsmerea sets the chair she had been sitting on back underneath the desk. She inspects the papers, setting them down once Wuunferth inquiries, "Well, then?"

"I shiver to think of that woman on a battlefield," she grins. "Every soul would be sprinting back to their mothers in tears."

A quick chuckle leaves the man. "She's no timid woman. Her daughter is quite the opposite, though. Extremely shy. Odena herself used to be the same before her husband passed."

"Oh," the mage murmur, feeling poor for her rash conclusion of the woman.

"Sifnar was his name. I recall many nights where I'd be tending to bruises he'd made on that woman. Jorleif's late wife, Sifnar's sister, found out and started to make an issue of it. The steward believed it wasn't his place to do anything and Silda passed the issue on to Galmar. Sifnar got a nasty beating and a warning. Got killed the same week after breaking Odena's rib."

Ylsmerea inhales.  _ Why are you telling me this? _ "She still wears her headscarf, though?"

"Personal choice, I believe. She's taken a liking to General Stone-Fist as of now."

"You mentioned Jorleif had a wife."

"Silda. The two married young and got along well. She died from a family illness years back; it wrecked the man."

Ylsmerea swallows. "Perhaps I should not have asked."

"You've barely dipped your toes in the water, woman. Dealing with the jarl throws you into the drop-off. Ask questions. Pry. Be the worst nuisance known to man, especially to Jarl Ulfric. You need to know the folk in this place for it to become your home."

"Yrsarald told me I shouldn't be asking personal questions of the jarl."

"Bull dung! You ask whatever questions you want. If he gets prissy, kick him to his study and let him cool off. He has tantrums, he does! The only thing you need to be wary of is when he begins to destroy things. If you ever push to that point, I advise you to break a window and escape. Come back in a week."

The woman pales. "I'm beginning to regret this agreement. First, you lie and tell me he is merely temperamental. Jorleif and Yrsarald have said only severe words of his fury, and then you imply he'll attempt to  _ kill  _ me, whilst encouraging me to bother him?"

The court mage grunts. "I suppose you have a point. Have you ever met Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun?"

"I have."

"And are you familiar with his temper?"

Ylsmerea forces a tense smile. Wuunferth recognizes the expression and snorts. "Ulfric''s temper is similar. You must tell me what you've experienced with Balgruuf, though."

"I delivered him a weapon from the steward's daughter, who is a blacksmith. His daughter bit me, then cried when I told her to bugger off. Jarl Balgruuf first cursed at me for a half-hour, then threatened me with jail time. A guard came and told him that I hadn't done anything and I got banished from Dragonsreach instead of being locked up."

The court mage's brows knit. "Ech. Why you must never tell the whole truth eludes me. It ruins the story. Alas, we must get to work. Come, examine the potion I have Ulfric taking."

They spend the hours before breakfast conversing on various magical theories involving the ailment of the illustrious and mysterious Jarl Ulfric, who Ylsmerea imagines to be a bald, short man and misses no opportunity to remark on it. Wuunferth finds it especially humorous, breaking into a cough from coarse laughter. She remarks, "Eyes too small and smelling of spoilt meat, as well?" and that drives a guard in the hall to titter as well.

Ylsmerea finds her assumptions not overly extreme, despite the reactions.  _ I've never heard of a rumor that marked this man as attractive or well-kept. If he were, there would be chatter. The jarl must be average at best. Just as short as his temper, I'll hope. _

Once a guard calls both mages to mealtime, they have a pleasant breakfast with a dazed Jorleif and nodding off Yrsarald. Discussion of the jarl is avoided and they settle to bicker with each other good-naturedly, Ylsmerea often provoking a minor tiff. 

Bjorne continues to be a red-faced mess and disappoints his father because of it. Vorne teases his older brother and earns a slap on the cheek before the eldest son goes storming off. Jorleif is too tired to rebuke him for it and merely calls a petty, "Thank you for asking to leave, Bjorne!"

The young man only glowers over his shoulder. Stillness drapes in his exit, prompting to Ylsa take up a pointless conversation with Captain Avgorne that lasts the table until the end of the meal. 

Before the mage knows it, Odena is dragging her off into the clouded city of Windhelm and swaddling her in not one, but two cloaks. A thin layer of freshly-laid snow compresses under their feet, akin to powder. The chill isn't bone-biting, but it nips uncovered skin. 

Wind whistles over the walls of the ancient port, but only a few weak gales make it to the streets. The city is quiet and has a somber character to it as if the citizens embody the old stone surrounding them. Proud and resilient, but soundless. Weathered and worn but unyielding to the constant changing of seasons.

Ylsmerea feels an odd sensation of solace overcoming her.  _ Perhaps I like this place, even if it reminds me of things I should not be reminded of. _

When she sees the stones underneath her feet begin to grow cracked and uneven while walking further into the city, her guts twist uncomfortably. Anguish weighs on her shoulder just as heavily as her relief.

_ This place is becoming a ruin.  _

"Miss Odena!" comes a screeching call, pausing the maid in front of Ylsmerea. A light-haired, reasonably dressed woman comes down the inn steps to walk up to them, face pinched strangely.

"Miss Giordano," the older woman greets with a sigh. "How do you do?"

"Well, I'm rather frustrated. The captain gave me the slip again. But nevermind that, who is this?" the short woman peers, voice sharp and shrill.  _ It appears I will be somewhat of a new toy to citizens. Splendid. _

The head maid tightens her lip. "Apprentice Ylsmerea, the future court mage."

"Ylsa, when I'm not in the palace," the mage adds cheerfully. "A pleasure to meet you, miss."

"I'm Viola. What dragged you out of a hole?" she mocks, expression nothing short of disgust.  _ Good gods, she's rude!  _ "Odena, surely she's not going to be dressed like this in the Palace of Kings."

Her headscarf shifts with a small breeze. "We are heading to the seamstress."

"Oh, that old hag?"

"Viola, you would do well to watch your tongue," Odena mutters.

"You're too high and mighty to hear it, are you? Fine then. Tell that mutt of a mage to keep her whoring hands off my captain," the woman saunters off, calling rudely, "have a wonderful day!"

Ylsmerea trails behind the servant as she continues walking, lips set in a scowl. The mage blinks, remarking dubiously, "She's rather blunt."

The older woman shakes her head, scoffing, but does not remark. When they reach the marketplace, filled with murmurs and stares, she leads Ylsmerea to a small alcove beside the blacksmith and opens the door. Mumbling her thanks, the younger woman enters the house, keeping a watchful eye on the height of the doorways out of habit.

The entrance of the home smells of lavender and flowery scents and is lit well with numerous candles and a few enchanted magelights. Across from her is a counter stacked with books and thin parchment, an ajar door behind it.

"Lady Helvina!" the maid beckons, taking off Ylsmerea's cloaks and hanging them before her own. An elderly woman appears from the thick, dark door. Her walk to the counter is elegant and graceful, feet falling lightly upon the floor. 

A pained smile forces it's way onto comely features. The elderly woman's dark eyes give a once-over of Ylsmerea, and like every other lady she's encountered, she seems mortified. "Lady Odena," she greets in return, voice soft. "Good morn."

The maid approaches her without hesitation. "And to you. How is your sister?"

"Helgrid has refused every sleeping draught I have sent and has not spoken to me for a week now," Helvina sighs. "Not even my daughter can convince her otherwise."

"I've heard Hillevi has been fighting with Fjotli with enlisting."

_ This seamstress, Helvina, is mother to Hillevi, wife of Torsten Cruel-Sea. And sister to Helgrid, whoever she is,  _ Ylsa concludes.  _ Fjotli is her grand-daughter, then. _

The grandmother sighs gently. "It is true. She's had her eyes set on a lad and won't tell his name. If Torsten doesn't let her ask the jarl where he's stationed, she's threatened to join."

_ How lucky, then, for you to have a former bounty hunter in the room.  _ "Lady Helvina, if Torsten would agree, I can put my expertise to use with finding Fjotli's sweetheart."

Both of the older women turn to look at the mage. Odena introduces, "This is Wuunferth's apprentice, Ylsmerea. She is his chosen successor. Surely you've heard of his spat with Torbjorn for Friga's home."

Helvina nods, murmuring, "I have. Impressive, that. Come closer, Apprentice. I've never heard of the court mage bothering the Shatter-Shields for his students," Ylsmerea obeys and the elderly woman assesses her thoroughly. "You do not smell of magic," she comments.

"I deal often with healing people that are wary of it and have taken amends to stifle it," the brunette answers. "My calling is the restorative school."

The calm lady tilts her head, then her lips peak upwards. "You'll have no trouble with me. I'll send a page to my son to inform him of your offer. Now, please, I cannot see you in such a drab outfit. It dulls a bright soul. Let us move to the parlor."

_ I feel as if I've been blessed.  _ The three women move to a larger side room, where matching rugs line the shining wood floors. Dresses and tunics and clothing are hung on racks and stands, framed glass diagrams of traditional apparel hung on the walls. A small, grated hearth sits well-protected in the wall, and in a corner, there is a series of tables covered in various fabrics and furs.

Ylsmerea has seen plenty of seamstresses and their shops, but none seem to rival Helvina's.  _ I don't want to think of the cost she must put on her skills. _

The seamstress airs, "Now, Odena, what are you wanting?"

"Formal gowns, a uniform, and a cloak, for starters."

"Excellent. Pick out some fabrics and furs, my dear. Ylsmerea, I'll have you step into this room with me for measurements," Helvina directs, gesturing to a small side-room with a curtain pulled aside in the doorway. The mage steps in, watching as the elderly woman deftly shuts the curtains.

"I'll need you to undress to your undergarments," she states lightly, moving about the shelving in the narrow room and picking out a ball of yarn and scissors.

Ylsmerea does so, getting an unreadable expression from the woman once she is down to braces and underclothing. "Here," she murmurs, assisting with unbuckling the leather and setting it on a bench. She smells distinctly of Dragon's Tongue flowers and Jazbay grapes. "Do you get aches without the supports?"

"Nothing unbearable," she glances back at the woman, who now inspects her corset. "I... uh, I wear it because I broke my spine when I was younger. It never set right."

The tailor frowns but does not question. "All of my new steel bonings were sent to the blacksmith for the war, but I do have some old whalebone. Once this war is done with, come back and get a better bodice. How long have you had this one?"

"Oh, gods, decades. I've reboned it once every few years."

"Well, your stitching is sound," the woman chuckles. "All your replacements have been done well, too, but I think you're due for a new one. I can put in requests to Hermir to get you proper braces, as well, but it would be costly."

"I'll have no trouble paying for it. Wuunferth and I are splitting the cost. He can cover the gowns and such and I can get the rest."

Helvina gives her a wistful smile as she begins to wrap yarn tightly around the mage's shoulders. "For such a gold-hearted young woman, I find it odd you do not wear a band of marriage. I'll not pry on why, for it is none of my concern, but take my words in thought: other women in this city will be shielding of their husbands around you."

Ylsmerea flushes, eyes set on the ground as the woman continues. "Tova Shatter-Shield, in particular, will likely be outright hostile. She and my daughter, Hillevi, used to fight like sabers over who they fancied. My girl grew out of it, but Tova? She's protective."

_ Why is everyone so comfortable with telling me things? It's getting absurd. _

"Thank you for your advice, my lady. Speaking of nobles, I've been tasked with seeing to Jarl Ulfric, and though I hate to pester you, it is a rather daunting responsibility. I have never met him. Would you have any guidance?" Ylsmerea requests, reluctant.

The seamstress halts entirely. "You have been assigned to the jarl personally?"

The mage stills. "I... I do not know if I can speak of why."

"I'm well aware of his conditions, young lady. I'm asking why in Talos' name Wuunferth would even think of throwing you into a bear's den like this," she says, voice cutting and hard.  _ Oh. _ "I can barely get that stubborn mule to stand up for measurements."

"What do you suggest I do?"

Helvina composes herself, continuing her measuring and answering, "Do not force him to do a thing. If he wants to leave, let him. And for the love of the nine, do not spark his ire. That is all you can do."

_ Well, I've now got three different ways to go about this, and I don't reckon any of them are right. Magnificent. _

After a pause, the woman then adds scoldingly, "Nevermind the jarl, what is with these meatless bones of yours? You're a tall dame! You'd have a body women dream of if you filled out, with these hips! You've got the exact measurements all of the old patterns call for, with these strong shoulders. You wouldn't mind Odena seeing, would you?"

Ylsmerea shakes her head, feeling like a doll in the hands of a girl while the seamstress opens the curtain. "Dear, look at this one. Imagine a Freydis style dress on her."

The maid turns, her hands going to her chest as she breathes, "Oh, gods, she's got the body for it, she does. And the mind, I do say!"

The older woman beams. "Come, bring your fabrics and colors, disregard the cost. I've not had the honor to make such a gown in many a year. Ylsmerea, bless your heart, you've made me a happy seamstress!"

The next hour passes quickly, with the two older women speaking so quickly of designs and colors and fittings that Ylsmerea is unable to ask why she now needs  _ five  _ dresses when she came for, at most, two. She had planned on bargaining for only one, being she'd rarely need to wear them.

Even worse, the fabrics the ladies were choosing were far more luxurious than necessary, especially for her mage uniform. Every time she was able to object, she was shushed and waved off. At one point, Helvina's daughter came about and  _ joined  _ the chatter, equally as passionate.

The Cruel-Sea woman seemed distinctly puzzled by her mother as if she was acting oddly. She and Ylsmerea had a civil introduction and the noblewoman was in favor of the help the mage offered, remarking on how excited her mother was. She mumbled something that sounded eerily like, "My mother is as cold as ice normally."

Ylsmerea felt like she was being spoiled, which was an unfamiliar feeling, as her childhood was spent in deep poverty and without parents. It was not a bad way of being treated, as long as it came in small doses. 

Helvina quickly became a cherished figure, as well as Odena, for their guidance and attention.

Once the seamstress let them go, Hillevi tagged along with Odena and her to the cobbler (Helvina insisted she get shoes for her dresses, which Ylsa found baffling) and blacksmith. Ylsa learned Hillevi ran a shop and farmed and had the day free of work, per her husband's urging. 

They barely made it back to the Palace of Kings in time for lunch, considering Hillevi had a batch of herbs for the court mage she wanted to deliver. The steward was late as well, a fumbling mess to the table with a handful of paperwork. Yrsarald had to skip the meal entirely, and Odena took it upon herself to track him down and provide him food.

It left Ylsa and Hillevi to chat and both discovered they quite enjoyed each other's company, much to Wuunferth's annoyance, who found the two like chirping birds. Jorleif, on the other hand, found their lively conversation entertaining.

Once lunch ended, the two went their separate ways and Ylsa started making work on her agreement to the Free-Winter family, getting Brunwulf's problem solved with a simple scry and sending a letter to a man in Kynesgrove for Elda. She spent a half-hour with young Arvid, finding his fascination with learning anything endearing, even if he was no mage.

And then, a scanty but freezing blizzard hit the city, prompting the apprentice to take shelter in the Palace of Kings after assisting a few guards with a warming spell. 

It was an eventful day, so a calm evening meal in a warm place was welcomed. Yrsarald started it, stating that Jorleif was up to his neck in ledger work and letters and wouldn't be attending. It was only him, Wuunferth, and Ylsmerea at the high table. The rest of the table that spanned most of the large hall was similarly empty.

The woman found the throne hall to be glorious, but lacking taste. She had an itching thought that it was missing something, be it from the coldness of the furnishings or the hall itself. Something just wasn't right.

She was distracted from her wonderings by the Eastmarch general inquiring about her day. Admittedly exhausted, she tried her best to describe it well but felt her words were tedious and lackadaisical from her lack of energy and she soon gave up on being entertaining. Yrsarald's response was cut off by the opening of the palace doors and the entrance of a group of men.

The general shot to attention, as did all present in the hall. Wuunferth had pulled her up from her seat and echoed with everyone else, "My jarl."

Ylsmerea holds her head and keeps steady, but her stomach keels. 

_ This is it. The beginning of it all.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, be sure to mention any errors!
> 
> What was your favorite part of this chapter? Favorite character so far? Other comments?
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and stay tuned for the next!


End file.
